ECHOES 


FROM  THE 


HIGHLAND  HILLS, 


BY 

CHARLES    H.  COLLINS, 

Of  the  Hillsboro  ( Ohio)  Bar. 


CINCINNATI: 

PETER  G.  THOMSON,  PUBLISHER, 

1884. 


Copyrighted,  1884, 
By  CHARLES  H.  COLLINS. 


INSCRIPTION. 


To  THOSE  FRIENDS   AT  WHOSE  KEQUEST  THESE  SELECTIONS; 

FROM  VARIOUS  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  THE  PRESS,  IN 

VARIOUS  PLACES,  HAVE  BEEN  GROUPED 

TOGETHER,  THIS  UNPRETENDING 

VOLUME  is 

DEDICATED  BY  THE  AUTHOR, 

WHO    HAS  FOR    SO    MANY  YEARS    LlVED 

WITH    THEM   IN    THIS  BEAUTIFUL    SECTION    OF    OUR    STATE, 

C.  H.  COLLINS. 

Hillnboro,  Ohio,  1881. 


W191926 


CONTENTS. 


In  Memoriam, .  .    9 

A  Border  Raid  (1868), 11 

Missouri  (Ante-Bellum),          . 18 

Anno  Sixty-Nine, 22 

Vespers, .  26 

Opening  Music  Hall, 28 

The  Oriole, 31 

What's  it  all  Worth  ?           .         .         .-.-..         .  33 
In  the  Twilight,       .        .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .35 

By  the  Mountain  and  the  Shore, 39 

Midnight  in  the  Glen, 44 

"  Like  to  a  Water  Course," 48 

Doubt,     .         .         .         .         .-        .         .         .         ...  50 

"Dreams  have  their  Development,"             .         .         .         .  52 

Impromptus,             .........  55 

To  a  Young  Husband,         .        .        .        .         .        .         .  58 

On  the  Same, 58 

To  my  Cigar,        .........  60 

'Twas  on  a  Starry  Night, ,        .         .62 

To  the  Girl  of  my  Heart, .  63 

Do  I  Think  of  Thee? 66 

Impromptus,        .                  67 

The  Luxembourg, 73 

Constancy,     ..........  76 

Absent, 79 

To  Her  who  Understands  Them, 80 


CONTENTS. 


After  Marriage,     .........     82 

Impromptus 84 

When  the  Rosy  Cheek  is  Paling,  .         .         .         .         .     86 

The  Misanthrope, 89 

On  the  Ship,         .         .         .         , 92 

From  my  Studies,       ........         94 

By  Farm  House  Gate, 96 

Care, 98 

Invocation,  .         .         .         .         .         •         •         •         .99 

The  Old  Lawyer, "    •        •         .100 

A  Toast, '       .         .'       .         -101 

Don't  Give  Up, •         .         .102 

Slander, .103 

Undine,     .         .  ....         .         .105 

Thirty  Years  Ago,        .       ..        • 108 

Abbey  of  St.  Denis,  ;..-...       110 

Good-Bye,     .  .  • 113 

The  Highland  Hills, 116 

The  Emerald  Isle,         .         .  e 118 

Erin, 121 

Along  the  Boulevard,  .  .         •         •         .         •  123 

The  Little  Children 127 

Dublin  Quay, 130 

Esther, 132 

England, 134 

Coming  Home, 136 

Inuendo,        ..........  138 

Valedictory,  140 


ADDENDA. 


" The  Board  Bill."     (By  Judge  G.  B.  Gardner),     .        .        .145 

Tony  Replies,      .         . 143 

What  Tom  Says,     .         .        .        .       '. ]50 

"  Blood  upon  the  Moon."     (By  Col.  T.  A.  Walker),    .        .       152 

The  Buford  Pig,      .      • 154 

All  about  a  Penny,      .        .         .         .         .         .         .         .       156 


(vi) 


0  £ 


FROM    THE 


pills. 


IN    MEMOR1AM. 


HE  is  not  dead.     He  could  not  die, 

His  spirit  has  returned  to  God ; 
What  cares  that  soul,  released  and  free, 

For  mouldering  body  'neath  the  sod? 

The  body  dies :  an  empty  shell, 

It  fills  the  dark  and  cheerless  grave; 

The  mind,  immortal,  upward  soars, 
No  longer  bound  to  earth  a  slave. 

They  made  his  grave  ?mid  drifting  snow, 
While  sadly  blew  the  north-wind's  breath, 

And  hid  from  sight  that  noble  heart, 
So  calm,  so  still,— they  call  it  death. 

All  were  his  friends,  the  loved,  not  lost, 
And  o?er  the  cold  and  pulseless  clay 

The  tears  of  grief  in  anguish  fall; 

The  drops  of  sorrow,  naught  can  stay. 


NOTE. — A  tribute  to  Cyrus  B.  Trimble,  a  young  attorney  of  the  Hills- 
bonmgh  (O.>  Bar,  of  great  promise  and  every  excellent  quality.  He 
died  in  the  Winter  01  1866-7,  and  his  death  was  regretted  by  all,  and  by 
none  more  than  the  writer.  (9) 


IN    MEMOR1AM. 


HE  is  not  dead.     He  could  not  die, 

His  spirit  has  returned  to  God; 
What  cares  that  soul,  released  and  free, 

For  mouldering  body  'neath  the  sod? 

The  body  dies :  an  empty  shell, 

It  fills  the  dark  and  cheerless  grave; 

The  mind,  immortal,  upward  soars, 
No  longer  bound  to  earth  a  slave. 

They  made  his  grave  'mid  drifting  snow, 
While  sadly  blew7  the  north- wind's  breath, 

And  hid  from  sight  that  noble  heart, 
So  calm,  so  still,— they  call  it  death. 

All  were  his  friends,  the  loved,  not  lost, 
And  o'er  the  cold  and  pulseless  clay 

The  tears  of  grief  in  anguish  fall; 

The  drops  of  sorrow,  naught  can  stay. 


NOTE.— A  tribute  to  Cyrus  B.  Trimble,  a  young  attorney  of  the  Hills- 
borough  (O.'  Bar,  of  jjreat  promise  and  every  excellent  quality.  He 
died  in  the  Winter  of  1860-7,  and  his  death  was  regretted  by  all,  and  by 
none  more  than  the  writer.  (9j 


10 


ECHOES  FROM  THE 

0  stricken  mortals,  let  our  pride 
Bow  humbly  to  the  will  of  fate; 

No  cry,  from  torn  or  broken  hearts, 
Can  pass  where  glows  the  golden  gate. 

We  ponder  o'er  the  silent  tomb 

Where  his  young  manhood  meets  decay: 
Shall  we  forget  the  'raptured  soul, 

Now  bright'ning  in  eternal  day? 

To  bring  him  back,  Ah !  who  would  wish 
To  loose  the  earthly,  fragile  shroud, 

And  place  again  this  pure,  young  heart 
In  contact  with  the  world's  vile  crowd. 

Let  mem'ry,  with  its  magic  charm, 

Beguile  us  into  perfect  trust, 
And  Hope,  still  beck'ning  upward,  point 

While  musing  on  the  hidden  dust. 

Cease  idle  tears,  the  dull,  cold  ear 
Is  deaf  for  aye  to  praise  or  blame; 

"The  God  who  gave  has  ta'en  away, 
And  blessed  be  His  holv  name." 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  11 

A  BORDER  RAID.  (1863  ) 
I 

PROM  the  gray  depths  of  Ozark's  height, 
At  the  red  dawn  of  morning  light, 
While  all  the  air  with  music  filled, 
And  forest  birds  their  anthems  trilled, 
One  Summer  morn,  of  glorious  sky, 
Of  fragrant  breeze,  and  ripple's  sigh, 
When  green  the  dewy  clover  sprung, 
And  blooming  flowers  their  perfume  flung, 
Adown  the  mountain's  caverned  side 
The  iron  warriors  of  SHELBY  ride, 
Led  by  a  chief  with  haughty  crest, 
Who,  o'er  Missouri's  verdant  plain, 
Had  gazed  in  dreary  exile  vain, 
Yet  hoped  and  longed  to  cross  again. 
And  now  intent  on  deadly  raid, 
At  column's  van  his  flag  displayed, 
He  dooms  the  prairies  fair  shall  see 
The  march  of  border  chivalry, 
And  test,  in  battle's  fierce  alarms, 
The  vaunted  power  of  northern  arms. 


NOTE.— Gen.  Joseph  O.  Shelby  was  the  Marion  of  the  Confederacy  in 
the  Trans-Mississippi  department.  His«campaigns  are  described  in 
ornate  and  glowing  style  by  his  Adjutant,  Major  John  c.  Edwards,  in  a 
work  called  "Shelby  and  his  Men."  It  is  but  just  to  say  thai  these 
"Raids,"  of  which  there  were  many,  accomplished  no  good  purpose. 


12  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


II 


Now  near  Neosho's  pebbled  stream 
The  leader  ponders  o'er  the  dream 
That  once  again  in  fair  array 
He'll  reach  his  home:  but  can  he  a 
Now  from  the  densest  oaken  arch 
Echoes  the  war  cry,  "Forward,  March." 
Come,  gallop,  dash  o'er  leagues  of  grass, 
Cross  forest,  slough  and  deep  morass, 
Thread  tangled  thicket  and  thorny  brake. 
Pass  rushing  river  and  placid  lake, 
'Till,  in  the  broad  Missouri's  wave, 
Each  warrior  stoops  his  brow  to  lave, 
And  from  its  shifting,  sandy  brink 
Each  trusty  steed  may  freely  drink. 
Where  are  your  homes?     Alas!  no  more, 
The  echoes  from  the  voiceless  shore 
Proclaim  the  hopeless,  future  state 
Of  hearth-stones  drear  and  desolate, 
And  by  the  dark  and  turbid  waters, 
Behold  Missouri's  mourning  daughters! 
Forget  the  weary,  wildering  miles, 
Restore  their  beauty,  joy  and  smiles. 
Now  charge  the  host  by  Luna's  gleams, 
Now  fight  him  by  Apollo's  beams, 
Nor  spare  on  hated  foreign  foe 
The  bayonet  thrust  or  sabre  blow. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  13 


Count  not  the  battle  lost  or  won, 
Until  your  desperate  task  is  done. 


Ill 


At  bugle  call,  and  tap  of  drum, 
The  ardent  youth  to  SHELBY  come, 
And  'neath  his  banner's  oft-tried  might, 
Fight  for  the  cause  they  deem  is  right, 
While  tyrants  first  begin  to  fear, 
The  clanging  of  a  Southern  spear, 
And  in  their  guilty  slumbers  see 
Visions  of  SHELBY'S  warriors  free, 
1Till  'roused  by  cannon's  dreaded  fire, 
They  know  that  now  the  vengeful  ire 
Of  Exile's  hearts,  and  Exile's  steel, 
In  their  own  persons  they  shall  feel, 
And  in  their  wasted  homes  shall  know 
How  sad  has  been  the  Exile's  woe, 
And  with  their  blood  shall  well  repay 
The  pillage,  plunder  and  foray, 
The  reckless  license,  death  and  smart, 
Inflicted  on  Missouri's  heart. 
Let  terror  reign,  why  should  it  not? 
€an  such  injustice  be  forgot? 
What  other  measure  can  they  crave, 
Of  Southern  men,  than  that  they  gave? 


14  ECHOES  FROM  THE 

IV 

What  stirs  the  State  so  far  and  wide, 

From  Merrimac  to  Kansas  side ; 

From  Osage  down  to  Gasconade — 

What  but  the  fame  of  Shelby's  raid? 

The  skulker,  from  his  downy  bed, 

In  coward  haste  has  sprang  and  fled, 

While  from  the  hostile  camps  afar, 

The  Federals  rush  to  join  the  war, 

And  fierce  and  fast  comes  death  below — 

The  ancient  town  of  Girardeau, 

And  musket  shot  and  batteries'  peal 

O'er  Pilot  Knob  in  echoes  steal ; 

The  Iron  Mountain  hears  report, 

How  'round  its  base  Death  holds  his  court ; 

The  Capital  sees  the  meteor  flash, 

As  by  the  walls  its  squadrons  dash, 

And  hears  the  spiteful  cannon's  roar, 

Resounding  from  the  leafy  shore. 

Fair  Boonville  opens  wide  her  gate, 

To  welcome  the  hero  saved  by  fate. 

The  gentle  city,  Arrow-Rock, 

Feels  now  the  Federal's  battle  shock, 

And  beauteous  plains  of  calm  Saline 

And  shelving  banks  of  dark  Lamine: 

Here,  stern  and  harsh  were  war's  decrees, 

Where  men,  unyielding  as  the  trees 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  15 

'Mid  which  they  fought— that  awful  day- 
Made  of  themselves  the  vultures'  prey. 
The  stream  is  blood !     0  horrid  sight, 
Hide  it  from  vision,  welcome  night 
And  welcome  morn ;  let  Marshall  view 
SHELBY'S  shattered  band  pass  through. 


Now  fast  on  SHELBY'S  straggling  rear, 
O'er  brake,  and  waste  and  prairies  drear, 
The  gathering  clans  from  every  post 
Press  on.     In  truth  a  mighty  host; 
At  morn  these  boasting  foemen  said, 
"Our  lines  are  closely  'round  him  spread; 
Now  friendly  Parcea,  draw  the  net; 
SHELBY,  alas!  thy  sun  is  set!" 
But  trust  not  fate,  your  game  is  lost ; 
Ah!  had  you  counted  but  the  cost, 
And  spared  the  prairies'  fitful  gales, 
Your  beaten,  baffled,  dying  wails, 
And  corpses  scattered  through  the  wood, 
Trampled  with  iron  hoof  in  blood  ; 
And  by  the  evening's  purple  light, 
Stark,  stiff  and  ghastly  to  the  sight. 
The  wounded  hear  the  sabres  ring, 
And  ceaseless,  tireless  clattering 
Of  hoof  after  hoof,  on  prairie  sod, 
As  SHELBY  plies  his  deadly  rod. 


16  ECHOES  FROM  THE 

Now  Waverly  sees  his  banners  fly, 
Reflected  in  the  sun-set  sky; 
Young  city,  nestled  in  the  bluff, 
Destined  ere  long  to  usage  rough. 
Behold  in  lonely  streets  arrayed 
The  rent  and  war-worn  young  Brigade,— 
'Twas  SHELBY'S  home.     He  lingered  yet, 
Too  long  'mid  scenes  he  can't  forget. 
In  its  defense  he  could  but  die, 
From  household  gods  he  would  not  fly, 
'Though  all  around  his  Spartan  band 
The  circling  foemen  grimly  stand. 
Here,  for  the  last,  he  turns  at  bay; 
He  fights,  he  conquers,  wins  the  day, 
And  'scapes  the  meshes,  nets  and  toils, 
'Mid  tumult,  bloodshed  and  turmoils, 
To  come  in  after  days  once  more, 
And  shock  again  the  Federal  power. 

VI 

Through  Dover  streets  his  horsemen  rush, 
And  penetrate  dark  Tabo's  brush ; 
Great  Lexington,  the  County's  queen, 
Beholds  her  favorites'  glitt'ring  sheen. 
Then  westward  bends,  like  bird  or  wind, 
Leaves  dull  pursuit  far.  far  behind; 
A  score  of  leagues  from  morn  'till  eve, 
Behind  each  day,  his  horsemen  leave; 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  17 


And  Kansas  borders  far  and  near 
Felt  SHELBY'S  unrelenting  spear. 
Her  cities  burned  with  lurid  flame, 
Sad  vengeance  for  Missouri's  shame. 
Yet  could  he  but  retaliate 
The  wrongs  done  his  adopted  State  ? 
Arkansas  safely  reached  at  last, 
The  Brigade  rests,  its  labors  past. 
Yet  long  in  verse  or  sadder  prose 
S/HiM  live  the  history  of  its  woes, 
And  prairies  green,  and  forest  shade, 
Keep  fast  the  memory  of  the  Raid. 


18  ECHOES  FROM  THE 

MISSOURI. 

(ANTE-BELLUM.) 

IT  seems  to  me  a  pleasant  dream, 
Of  forest,  prairie  and  gentle  stream  : 
Each  day  was  golden,  joy  crown'd  the  night ; 
The  skies  all  sunny,  the  moon  all  bright. 
Then,  all  was  peace  and  joy  within, 
Thy  borders  wide,  O  fair  Saline; 
And  War  had  ne'er,  in  sweeping  wrath, 
.Sown  discord  in  each  well-known  path, 
And  left  thy  homesteads  sad  and  low,— 
Mementoes  of  a  deadly  woe. 

Let  Fancy  glide  o'er  Waconda, 

Or  tread  thy  vast  expanse,  Teetsaw  ; 

Or  when  the  autumn  suns  are  fine, 

In  Salt-Fork  cast  the  angler's  line  ; 

Or  near  its  cool  sequestered  haunts, 

Watch  soaring  geese  or  screaming  brants; 

Or  as  the  whirring  wood-grouse  spring, 

With  shot-gun  "take  them  on  the  wing  " 

Or  cross  the  turbid  river's  tide, 

To  thickets  dense,  by  water  side; 

With  horse  and  hound,  from  coverts  near 

Beat  up  the  red-fox,  'rouse  the  deer; 

NOTE— The  writer  was  a  resident  of  western  Missouri  (while  a  voune- 
man)  for  five  years. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  19 

Follow  the  grouse  o'er  field  and  plain, 
Nor  deem  it  labor  all  in  vain, 
'Though  dogs  may  tire  in  endless  race 
And  sportsmen  fail  in  long,  long  chase. 
Do  you  note  that  spot  in  Heaven's  blue, 
Where  sand  cranes  sing  'ere  lost  to  view, 
And  soaring  sing,  obscured  from  sight, 
In  dread  Empyrean's  lonely  height  ? 
See  how  the  wild  geese  face  the  wind, 
And  leave  pursuers  far  behind  ; 
Wedge-like  and  arrowy,  cut  the  breeze, 
And  wing  their  flight  with  grace  and  ease. 

On  sentinel  trees,  by  forest  gate, 
The  watchful  hawks  in  patience  wait 
For  ambushed  quails,  or  nestling  hare, 
To  venture  from  their  grassy  lair : 
A  rustle,  then  a  light'ning  flash, 
The  hawk  has  made  a  sudden  dash- 
He  bears  aloft  the  trembling  game, 
To  kill  for  food,  and  not  for  fame. 

'Tis  twilight  now  by  lakelet's  edge, 

The  wild  duck  parts  the  cluster'd  sedge, 

Thick  and  coarse,  tall  and  rank; 

It  grows  by  lake-side  dark  and  dank. 

The  Pelican,  with  double  throat, 

And  Swan,  with  wild  and  whistling  note, 


20  ECHOES  FROM  THE 

Now  join  in  chorus  far  and  near, 
In  sounds  confused  on  list'ning  ear, 
While  from  the  slough  and  gloamy  fen, 
Spring  the  wood-cock  and  water-hen. 

And  o'er  the  deep  and  wide  morass, 
In  zig-zag  nights,  the  Jack  Snipe  pass; 
The  Dove's  low  voice  is  heard  remote, 
And  rattlesnake's  death-warning  note  ; 
The  night-owl,  from  the  forests  still, 
Responds  unto  the  Whip-poor-will, 
While  o'er  the  purpling,  fading  day 
The  pale  moon  sheds  her  placid  ray. 
Grim  spectres  peer  in  leafy  shades, 
And  dancing  lights  on  prairie  glades, 
As  starting  from  the  azure  dome, 
The  stars  step  forth  to  guide  us  home. 

By  beaten  tracks,  see  all  around 
The  hemp  stands  thickly  on  the  ground, 
And  in  the  verdant  pastures  close 
The  broad-horned  cattle  seek  repose. 
Now  stirs  the  bearded,  ripening  wheat, 
And  perfume  comes  from  meadows  sweet ; 
And  proudly  waves  the  tasseling  corn, 
And  Plenty  fills  her  bounteous  horn. 
The  orchards  bend  beneath  their  load 
Along  each  lane  and  public  road; 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  21 

And  grapes,  as  famed  for  sparkling  wine 
As  those  which  grace  the  banks  of  Rhine  ; 
And  luscious  plums  as  large  and  sound 
As  e'er  on  Syrian  plains  are  found ; 
Peach  and  cherry  and  wild  crab  trees, 
Emitting  fragrance  on  the  breeze  ; 
Plants  of  all  shades  and  every  dye, 
To  suit  the  taste  or  please  the  eye. 

Through  foliage  dense  there  glows  a  light 

From  negro  cabins  glist'ning  white  ; 

This  greets  the  eye,  while  on  the  sense 

Fall  banjo  tones  in  sweet  cadence. 

On  still  night  air  there  rise  and  fall 

The  notes  of  ballads  musical ; 

And  on  the  cabin  floor  resounds 

Reels,  jigs,  or  far  more  famed  ' 'break-downs." 

O  happy  race,  your  joys  are  past ! 

Your  long-sought  freedom,  reached  at  last. 

Has  brought  along  in  endless  train 

Disease,  and  hunger,  death  and  pain. 

And  do  you  know  this  fairy  land? 
And  would  you  in  its  portals  stand? 
And  day  by  day  your  praises  give, 
If  there  you  might  in  quiet  live, 
And  on  its  charming  prairie  sod, 
"From  nature,  look  to  nature's  God?'' 


22  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


What  shall,  Missouri,  be  thy  fate, 
The  mighty  western  Empire  State, 
Who  'mid  thy  sisters  ranks  as  high 
As  Venus  in  the  starry  sky? 


ANNO    SIXTY-NINE. 

CHRONOS  or  Saturn,  as  the  poets  feign, 

In  ages  bygone  held  his  mystic  reign, 

Before  Olympus  rose,  or  the  golden  earth 

To  monstrous  lies  and  shams  had  given  birth ; 

Chief  of  the  elder  gods,  a  fabled  race, 

He  ruled  supreme  in  boundless  realms  of  space. 

The  world  was  new,  and  no  distempered  schemes 

Had  marred  its  beauty,  or  disturbed  its  dreams — 

Fit  habitation  for  the  gods  above, 

A  scene  of  quiet,  innocence  and  love — 

'Till  envious  Fate  pronounced  the  harsh  decree, 

That  this  Elysium  should  cease  to  be, 

And,  in  its  stead,  should  be  intestine  wars, 

NOTE.— Extract  from  New  Year's  Address,  Jan.  1,  1870. 


HIGHLAND     HILLS. 


From  nation's  quarrels  down  to  family  jars. 
On  Eden's  plain  the  stars,  that  awful  day. 
Looked  down  upon  the  man  of  clay, 
Save  one  of  ruddy  hue,  Bellona  styled, 
Who  gazed  upon  the  horrid  scene  and  smiled; 
And  fiercely  blazed  the  harbinger  of  woe, 
When  brother  died  by  brother's  angry  blow. 
Then  Crime  began,  and  centuries  to  roll 
Their  floods  of  anguish  o'er  the  human  soul. 
Year  follows  year,  though  life  is  but  a  span, 
And  Time  continues,  as  it  first  began. 
Remorseless,  "unrelenting  and  a  king, 
Whose  craving  maw  devours  each  mortal  thing; 
Even  his  own  offspring— days,  years  and  hours- 
Succumb  before  the  destroyer's  powers. 
The  eras  gone  before  are  soon  forgot, 
Their  doom  unheeded,  for  ''they  are  not." 
Hear  ye  that  knell?  it  is  the  midnight  chime 
Tolling  the  death  of  latest  child  of  Time. 
The  faded  year,  decrepit,  and  forlorn, 
Yields  up  its  breath,  and  Seventy  is  born. 
Come  welcome,  friends,  with  a  rousing  cheer, 
The  rush  to  life  of  the  glad  New  Year, 
As  purple  dawn  peers  o'er  the  Highland  Hill, 
The  happy  voices  all  the  morning  fill. 
Hopeful  New  Year,  thy  young  and  blooming  face 
Recks  not  or  cares  not  for  thy  sire's  disgrace. 
That  hoary  Titan,  plunged  in  every  vice, 


24  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


Whose  trumps  were  knaves,  and  weapons   loaded 

dice; 

A  desperate  gamester,  "who  palmed  his  hand," 
No  oath  could  bind  him,  no  promise  stand. 
A  black  career,  yet  touched  by  fitful  rays, 
The  gleaming  promises  of  better  days, 
When  Freedom's  banner  shall  float  in  azure  sky, 
And  tyrants  tremble,  sicken,  fall  and  die. 
A  bastard  brood  from  ignorance  allowed 
To  rule  and  plunder  the  great  gaping  crowd, 
Who  judge  of  merit  by  the  purse  alone, 
And  needing  bread,  are  content  with  a  stone. 
No  wonder  philosophers  leave  us  in  doubt. 
Whether  we  should  weep,  or  laugh  right  out, 
At  witnessing  the  follies  of  human  grubs, 
Who  are  partly  snobs  and  partly  scrubs. 
Our  text  is  short:  the  wild  antics  crazy 
Of  Sixty-Nine,  requiescat  in  pace, 
Which  means,  no  matter  what,  it  fits  the  rhyme 
Of  this  annus*niirabilis  of  crime. 
By  lake,  and  river,  mountain,  sea  and  wood, 
The  stains  are  red  with  horrid  hue  of  blood, 
And   through    the   long    drawn    months,    'neath 

ev'ry  sky, 

Constant  and  causeless  murders  shock  the  eye. 
They  call  it  war,  these  fighting  despots  all, 
Who  strive  their  fellows  to  kill  or  enthrall. 
It  matters  little  who  may  win,  for  still 


HIGHLAND    HILLS.  25 

The  masters  on  the  Canaille  work  their  will ; 

Treat  men  as  cattle,  fit  but  to  be  slaves, 

Or,  food  for  powder,  fill  ignoble  graves. 

These  mongrel  wretches,  sport  of  idle  kings, 

The  tools  of  knaves,  perhaps  voting  things ; 

Things  for  a  Lopez,  or  the  smarter  beasts, 

To  use  as  purveyors  for  daily  feasts, 

And  while  content  to  pick  the  well  cleaned  bones, 

Serve  as  substratum  for  their  master's  thrones. 

So  it  has  been  ;  so  it  will  ever  be; 

On  this  great  fact^all  histories  agree, — 

The  many  serve  the  purpose  of  a  few, 

Who  claim  all  honors  as  their  own  just  due. 

Though  this  was  disputed  by  our  great  sires, 

Whose  faith  was  tested  in  the  battle  fires, 

And  came  forth,  unsullied,  from  burning  coals, 

The  hopeful  anchor  to  their  noble  souls. 


26  ECHOES  FROM  THE 

VESPERS. 

ALONE  upon  this  tufted  hill 

In  silence,  while  the  air 
Is  pulseless,  all  is  still,  so  still, 

You  feel  no  presence  there. 
But  hark,  from  distant  village  towV 

Saint  Mary's  gentle  strain 
Proclaims  the  blessed  vesper  hour, — 

Tired  Labor  rests  again. 

The  mellowed  tones,  in  liquid  chime, 

Fall  on  the  list'ning  ear; 
Down  drop  the  spades,  comes  vesper  time. 

Then  home  with  all  its  cheer. 
0  !   weary  life,  with  short  respite, 

All  work  and  restless  brain  ; 
For  labor  hard  each  morn's  red  light 

Brings  fast  upon  its  train. 

The  sun's  last  rays  from  western  sky 
Glint  on  Saint  Mary's  spire; 

The  cross,  all  golden,  sparkles  high 
With  streams  of  burnished  fire 

Great  bars  of  purple  and  yellow  light 
Reach  to  the  zenith  blue, 


NOTE— From    Muntz   hill,  overlooking  the  highway    leading    from 
HillsborotoBelfast. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  27 

As  day  fades  into  sullen  night, 
Show  dying  dolphins'  hue. 

All  ripened  are  the  glowing  fields, 

Down  drops  the  dew  on  earth; 
We  see  the  fruitful  harvest  yields, 

For  Labor  gave  it  birth. 
From  sheltered  nooks  the  cabin  fires 

Ascending,  make  us  feel 
That  woman's  hand,  which  never  tires, 

Prepares  the  evening  meal. 

By  coverts  close,  and  brook-side  lone, 

The  cattle  stand  in  peace, 
And  twilight  beetles'  soothing  drone 

Now  murmurs,  Labor,  cease; 
On  dusty  road,  far,  far  below, 

The  trav'lers  hurry  by, 
Like  phantom  horsemen  flitting  go, 

Where  home  and  pleasures  lie. 

0  blessed,  blessed  eventide, 

When  vesper  hymns  arise, 
And  Labor  lays  its  toils  aside, 

And  turns  to  God  its  eyes; 
Who  has  not  felt  in  this  sweet  hour, 

Whate'er  his  trials  were, 
That  time  would  come,  no  earthly  power 

Could  bring  again  despair  ? 


28 


ECHOES  FROM  THE 


OPENING  OF  MUSIC  HALL. 

(HILLSBORO,  OHIO.) 

WHERE  erst  the  Shawnees  roved,  we  meet  to-night, 

But  wigwam  smoke  nor  piercing  whoop  are  here: 
Bright  eyes  their  gentlest  radiance  shed  around, 

And  hearts,  most  timid,  throb  without  a  fear. 
The  hall  we  dedicate  need  not  compare 

With  old  world  piles  of  centuries  renown; 
They  speak  of  wealth,  of  skill,  and  art  most  rare, 

But  are    they    not   with    crime   and    wrong    o'er- 

grown  ? 
Egyptian  slaves  might  rear  a  mass  of  stone, 

To  lure  some  lonely  wand'rer  into  thought, 
But  here  no  jackals  prowl;  Time  holds  his  scythe, 

And  blue-eyed  youth  prevails,  nor  feareth  aught; 
No  monarch  rules,  save  in  the  realms  of  taste, 

And  Jew  and  Gentile,  in  the  long-sought  hall, 
May,  like  the  chorus,  to  the  banquet  haste,— 

So  dividends  are  promptly  paid  on  call. 
Here  wit  and  jocund  mirth  shall  hold  their  court, 

And  soul-full  music  cheat  old  Time  of  care; 
The  tripping  feet  at  evening  hours  shall  laugh, 

And  gray-beard  wisdom  in  its  pleasures  share. 
The  lover  here  his  cunning  wiles  shall  spread, 

NOTE— Hurt  of  a  spoken  address  at  dedication  of  the  hall,  January  14, 
18/1.  The  hall  has  served  its  day,  and  a  new  Opera  House  is  now 
contemplated,  and  will,  perhaps,  be  erected. 


HIGHLAND     HILLS.  29 


The  artless  maiden  list  with  captive  will; 
The  sober  student  here  shall  raise  his  head, 

And  careless  childhood  drink  its  blessed  fill. 
The  politician  here  his  web  shall  weave, 

And  honest  yeomen  swallow  all  he  says, — 
Now  wonder  at  his  lies,  or  sadly  grieve 

To  hear  his  partial  blame  or  fulsome  praise. 
Here  head-manipulators  show  their  chart, 

And  while  they  feel  each  grinning  urchin's  head, 
Find  in  each  bump  a  cultivated  heart, 

And  draw  his  future  as  a  statesman  bred. 
The  unrolled  panorama  here  shall  work 

On  boys  and  girls  its  ever-potent  spell. 
The  frolic  minstrel  wear  his  sable  mark, 

And  tell  the  jokes  we  all  remember  well. 
The  gentle  Spring,  warm  Summer's  modest  tear, 

The  russet  Autumn,  with  its  mournful  wind, 
The  Vicking  Winter,  too,  shall  find  us  here 

To  stir  the  backward  pulse  and  cheer  the  mind. 
Now  on  the  hall  may  peace  her  rays  reflect, 

May  honest  labor  find  its  solace  here ; 
May  truth  her  crystal  pillars  here  erect, 

With  many  a  fervent,  ardent  worshipper. 
So  where  the  Shawnee  roved  and  pitched  his  tent, 

We  meet,  as  often  may  we  meet  again, 
And  in  this  hall  find  unalloyed  content, 

Without  a  thought  of  guile  or  throb  of  pain. 
Here,  as  we  try  the  tedious  hours  to  while, 


30  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


As  amateurs  upon  the  mimic  stage, 
May  we  but  ask  for  beauty's  partial  smile, 

Nor  raise  the  ire  of  philosophic  age. 
All  worldly  things  must  end :  so  does  my  verse, 

Would  it  were  worthier  of  a  worthy  cause; 
But  "what  is  writ  is  writ,"  it  might  be  worse, 

For  rhymes  agree  not  with  our  crabbed  laws. 
The  modest  muse  we  oft  may  woo  in  vain, 

As  hard  to  win  as  fabled  Orient  bride; 
The  siren  lingers  in  the  dewy  plain, 

Or  haunts  the  lonely  mountain's  side. 
The  coy  enchantress  flees  from  lover  rude, 

And  lurks  in  coverts  with  the  sylvan  pan, 
While  hidden  nymphs,  from  densest  solitude, 

Echo  the  cry,  "Come,  catch  her  if  you  can." 


HIGHLAND     HILLS. 

THE  ORIOLE. 

HAUNTER  of  the  orchard, 

Singing  clear  and  free, 
Flitting  o'er  the  green  sward, 

Full   of  melody, 
Where  the  apple  blossoms,  or  buds  the  tulip  tree. 

In  the  blush  of  morning, 

In  the  evening  gray, 
Ever  still  adorning 

All  the  Smnmer's  day. 
From  thy  airy  mansion,  with  the  winds  at  play. 

Challenging  the  plough  boy, 

"Whistling  his  team  afield,1' 
With  thy  matin  song  of  joy, 

All  his  sense  to  yield 
To  the  mocking  banter,  from  bending -willow  shield. 

Flecked  in  brightest  yellow, 

Helrneted  in  black, 
Piping  thy  whistle  mellow, 

Glancing  on  his  track, 
Like  a  gnome  or  fairy,  tempting  answer  back. 


XOTE— The*  colors  of  the  Calverts  were  black  and  orange.  The  Oriole, 
which  has  the  same  markings,  was  hence  called  "The  Baltimore 
Oriole."  The  English  sparrow  has  driven  the  beautiful  Fire-bird  away 
from  most  localities. 


32  ECHOES  FROM  THE 

Delicate  verinillion, 

Dancing  on  the  sight, 
Deepest  tinge  of  orange 

In  thy  plumage  bright, 
Lend  beauty  to  the  foliage,  and  sparkle  in  the  light 

These  are  the  colors  olden, 

Of  lordly  Baltimore, 
Flashed  by  the  Fire-bird  golden, 

Upon  our  western  shore, 
And  giving  thee  a  title,  which  noble  Calverts  bore 

Among  the  branches  glcairiing, 

This  heraldic  coat  of  arms, 
Like  ancient  banner  streaming, 

But  adds  unto  thy  charms, 
Linked  with  the  noble  Calverts  and  Indian  alarms. 

The  Baltimores  are  sleeping, 
The  sponsors  of  thy  name, 
But  thy  presence  still  is  keeping, 

Eternally  their  fame, 
Undying  and  immortal,  like  Roman  Vestal's  flame. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  33 


WHAT'S  IT  ALL  WORTH? 

WITH  fevered  brain  I  stood,  one  Summer  day, 

Where  the  rustling  grass,  in  requiem  moan, 
Its  dirges  chanted  o'er  the  crumbling  clay, 

Of  one  whose  yearning  soul  was  like  mine  own, 
Whose  burning  hopes  mapped  out  his  life  career, 

With  glowing  visions  of  success  to  be, 
Whose  thrilling  voice  was  to  the  list'ning  ear 

Like  trumpet's  call  to  certain  victory. 

He  thought:  he  toiled;  and  yet  to  all  was  seen, 

As  the  years  passed  on,  in  life's  fitful  dreams, 
That  much  he  loved  blue  skies  and  fields  of  green , 

And  the  murmuring  fall  of  purling  streams, 
The  breath  of  Spring,  warm  Summer's  fervid  kiss, 

The  trailing  vines,  in  clustering  wood  and  wold, 
The  song  of  birds  and  childhood's  artless  bliss, 

To  him  were  studies  as  life's  current  rolled. 

Ambition  lured  him  with  its  tempting  fruit, 

Its  mirage  fair  and  bright  imagined  land, 
Which  changed  to  phantoms  in  his  hot  pursuit, 

Or  left  but  ashes  in  his  clinging  hand. 
Nor  did  his  honors  to  him  joy  or  love, 

Contented  mind  or  dove-eyed  peace  e'er  bring; 
But  cares  were  set  upon  his  wrinkled  brow 

Ere  yet  had  swiftly  passed  his  youth's  glad  Spring. 


34  ECHOES  FROM  THE 

By  the  sickly  light  of  the  midnight  lamp, 

In  books  of  strange  device,  he  longing  sought 
To  learn  that  Lore  no  poverty  could  damp, 

Or  try  to  fathom  what  no  book  had  taught. 
'Mid  the  myriad  stars  he  oft  would  peer, 

Or  pensive  gaze  on  bush,  and  brook  and  hill, 
While  all  along  the  earth  there  moved  a  fear, 

A  deep,  sad  voice  which  to  him  boded  ill. 

One  night  a  zephyr  floated  from  the  sky, 

And  whispering  said,  "O"  searching  son  of  earth, 
Not  long  for  thee  remains  the  hopeless  sigh, 

The  quest  to  know  What  oM  this  life  is  worth; 
Then  through  his  quickened  frame  like  lightning 
crept 

A  pain,  and  the  heart  was  forever  still; 
The  student  toiler  'neath  the  moist  grass  slept, 

The  soul,  untrammeled,  roamed  all  space  at  will. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  35 

IN  THE  TWILIGHT. 

(TO  MY  WIFE.) 


IN  the  fleecy  haze, 

'Mid  sunset  rays, 
The  clouds  empurpled,  the  sky  of  gold, 

As  day  expires, 

In  twilight  fires, 
O  what  do  thine  eyes,  sweetheart,  behold? 

II. 

Where  the  sky  is  dark, 

A  glittering  spark, 
A  signal  point  in  the  depths  afar  ; 

The  jet  night's  lamp, 

To  her  speckled  camp, 
And  the  pale  moon  sitting  in  Crescent  car. 

III. 

Sweetheart,  thy  thought, 

In  the  soul  inwrought, 
As  sinks  in  gloom  the  red-orbed  sun, 

While  out  of  the  dark 

The  shimmering  spark 
Awaits  to  embrace  the  white  faced  moon. 


36  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


IV. 


Where  crimson  glows, 

On  the  umber  floes, 
And  hills  are  ablaze  with  saffron  warm, 

As  Druid's  blood, 

In  terraced  wood, 
The  dun  west  scatters  its  magic  charm. 

The  Dorian  maid, 

In  the  gathering  shade, 
With  veil  all  yellow  and  silver  beam, 

Like  elfin  sprite, 

Reflects  a  light, 
Cold  as  the  ice,  or  a  vestal's  dream, 

The  zephyrs  sigh, 

As  the  robes  trail  by, 
Of  sad-eyed  night,  in  the  pulseless  main, 

While  belted  Mars, 

'Mid  sentinel  stars 
His  first  watch  keeps  o'er  the  distant  plain. 

If  seraphs  be 

On  this  sparkling  sea, 
And,  fluttering,  wing  the  weird  expanse, 

Does  Love  have  birth 

So  far  from  earth, 
And  pierce  the  ether  with  his  shining  lance? 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  37 


V. 

Sweetheart,  this  land, 

Where  the  fairies  stand 
On  the  velvet  dale  and  peaceful  shore, 

With  jeweled  crests, 

By  the  Genii's  nests,* 
Is  the  mystic  spot  of  childhood's  lore. 

In  frolic  grace, 

Through  azure  space, 
The  elves  will  tempt  our  vain  desires; 

As  spectres  grim, 

Near  forests  dim, 
Decoy  to  ruin  with  phantom  fires. 

On  burnished  steep, 

As  they  vigils  keep, 
The  crown'd  Gnomes  muster  in  helmet  sheen 

But  thy  sweet  smile, 

Thy  charms  beguile 
My  sense  from  all  this  radiant  scene. 

'Twas  witchcraft  sips, 

From  ruby  lips, 
That  Sappho's  flaming  verse  inspired, 

Falernian  wine, 

Pure  love  divine, 
That  Grecian,  Roman  heroes  fired. 


*  See  description  in  "  Vathek,"  of  the  nests  above  the  clouds,  where 
the  good  Genius  placed  the  children  rescued  from  the  Giaour. 


38 


ECHOES  FROM  THE 


As  yon  dappled  cloud, 

With  gray-rimm'd  shroud, 
Obscures  the  zenith  in  mantle  gray, 

By  the  girdled  zone, 

And  melting  tone 
Of  the  foam-born  queen  of  Paphos'  wave, 

0  sweetheart  rare, 

This  love  we'll  bear, 
From  tangled  maze,  o'er  the  surging  tide, 

Our  now,  ours  then, 

And  still  our  when, 
We  thread  the  blue  concave  side  by  side. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS. 


39 


BY  THE  MOUNTAIN  AND  THE  SHORE. 

WHERE  the  dreamy  waters  murmured, 

Fleck'd  with  gold  and  amber  hued, 
'Midst  the  phantom  shadows  stealing, 

From  the  copse  of  birchen  wood; 
Where  the  green  waves,  fondly  dashing, 

Beat  the  shore  in  circlets  nigh, 
Stood  at  eve  a  sparkling  maiden, 

Light  her  heart,  and  bright  her  eye. 

Mute  beside  the  glassy  river, 

Twilight  shading  wood  and  sky, 
Here  'twere  joy  to  live  forever  — 

In  the  forests  live  and  die  ; 
Where  the  waves,  each  other  chasing, 

Bathe  the  sedge  upon  the  shore, 
Dwell  upon  this  fairy  margin 

In  the  glen  forevermore. 


NoTK.-Written  at  the  Glen  House,  White  Mountains,  for  Mis    Stella 
eeson  July  1882     The  next  morning  our  tourist  party  left  for  the  sea 
"  "     nd  the  river  near  Glen 


. 

Beeson  July  1882     The  next  morning  our  tourist  party  left  for  the  sea 
shore     The  references  are  to  "  Emerald  Pool"  and  the  river  near  Glen 
House     Mount  ^Washington  the  monarch  of  the  hills,  a 
highest  peaks  in  the  White  Hills,  face  the  Glen  House. 


40  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


"A  penny  for  your  thoughts,"  young  tourist, 

Ere  th'ese  magic  scenes  depart ; 
Shall  regrets  forever  haunt  thee, 

Dim  the  eye  and  cloud  the  heart  ? 
Fairy  glen  and  dancing  river, 

Tangled  path  beside  the  shore, 
Melt  away  from  earthly  vision, 

Memories,  and  nothing  more. 


Then  her  mouth  with  smiles  was  kindled, 

Laughter  floated  on  the  breeze, 
As  she  coaxing  called  upon  me, 

"  Write  some  poetry,  won't  you,  please?" 
The  evening  wind  was  gently  rustling 

Through  the  daisies  wet  with  dew, 
The  yellow  stars  were  dimly  peeping 

O'er  the  mountain's  crest  of  blue. 


Shall  I  write  a  goblin  story, 

Legend  old  with  horrors  fraught, 
While  the  hoary  mountains  beckon 

Themes  from  out  the  world  of  thought  ? 
Or,  shall  laughter  fright  the  spectres, 

Wailing  in  the  mournful  pines, 
And  the  echo  of  thy  spirit 

Ring  the  measure  of  the  lines? 


HIGHLAND  HILLS. 


41 


Thou  must  leave  the  rippling  waters 

Where  the  twilight  trembling  stays, 
Emerald  Pool  and  frowning  mountains 

Be  a  thought  of  vanished  days. 
Yet  will  fancy  sometimes  linger 

On  the  mountains  grim  and  hoar, 
Formed  by  HIM  who  keepeth  ever 

Watch  and  ward  beside  the  shore. 


Gilded  hours  are  swiftly  passing 

By  the  crystal  hills  and  streams, 
And  our  tourist  rounds  of  pleasure 

Soon  will  be  but  idle  dreams; 
Still  the  elfin  lamps  will  glitter 

On  these  purple  rocks  below, 
Still  the  azure  dome  of  heaven 

Will  with  starlight  be  aglow. 


Radiant  morning  hence  shall  lead  thee. 

And  the  night  shall  lull  to  sleep, 
By  rocky  coast  and  beaches  sandy, 

To  the  music  of  the  deep. 
May  HE  whose  temples  are  the  hills, 

Whose  shrines  are  by  the  shore, 
Watch  o'er  this  wand'ring  tourist  fair, 

Where  billows  ceaseless  roar. 


42  ECHOES  FROM  THE 

Soon  thou  shalt  see  the  red-orbed  sun 

From  ocean  waters  rise, 
With  naming  pennons  floating  far 

Athwart  the  eastern  skies; 
And  mark  the  change  to  golden  hue, 

As,  springing  from  the  waves, 
The  day-god  drives  his  chariot 

From  Neptune's  coral  caves. 


And  thou  shalt  see  his  lances  gleam 

Far  as  the  eye  can  reach, 
As,  tinged  in  foam,  the  white-caps  break 

On  Nahant's  shell-girt  beach. 
And  thou  shalt  see,  when  perfect  day 

Is  cloudless  in  the  light, 
The  fair  and  distant  sails  go  by, 

Like  phantoms  dim  and  white. 


And  thou  shall  stand  where  surging  tides 

On  rocks  eternal  beat, 
And  cast  the  treasures  of  the  sea 

Beneath  thy  wandering  feet ; 
And  strange  and  far  these  hills  will  be, 

Whose  summits  on  us  peer, 
While  near  and  clear  the  ocean's  roar 

Is  thundering  in  the  ear. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS. 

Lake  and  river,  glen  and  mountain, 

Ocean,  cave,  and  tide-washed  strand, 
Forms  of  beauty,  shapes  of  wonder. 

Fashioned  by  an  all-wise  hand, 
Wheresoe'er  thy  fate  may  lead  thee, 

Sheltered  in  His  strong  embrace, 
May  no  blight  of  care  or  sorrow 

Darkly  shadow  thy  young  face. 

* 

And  when  other  scenes  and  places 

Drive  from  thought  this  magic  glen, 
Keep  this  counsel  traced  sincerely, 

By  a  fellow-pilgrim's  pen  : 
Keep,  0  keep,  in  wood  or  city, 

In  the  crowd,  or  when  alone, 
Keep,  0  keep  thy  joyous  nature, 

'Tis  a  treasure,  all  thine  own. 


43 


44 


ECHOES  FROM  THE 


MIDNIGHT  IN  THE  GLEN. 

(INSCRIBED  TO  MY  DAUGHTER  NELLIE.) 

Spirits  with  : 

"haunts  in  dale  or  piny  mountain, 

Or  forest  by  slow  stream  or  pebbly  spring, 
Or  chasms  and  wat'ry  depths. — " 

The  Piccolo-mini. 


AT  midnight,  in  a  cloudless  sky, 

The  climbing  moon  uprose, 
On  sombre  vales  and  glassy  brooks 

Its  mellow  color  throws; 
Now  resting  in  the  lines  of  light, 

Now  dancing  o'er  the  rills, 
Fantastic  shapes  and  gleaming  sprites 

Are  flitting  in  the  hills. 

II 

The  bright-eyed  deer,  with  graceful  bound, 

Stop  near  the  limpid  streams 
To  gaze  upon  their  beauty  fair, 

Reflected  by  the  beams. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS. 


45 


By  mountain  trees  that  cluster  o'er 

The  tranquil,  silent  lake, 
The  wand'ring  eagle  furls  his  wings, 

While  night-birds  are  awake. 


Ill 


The  trout,  swift  swimming  through  the  wave, 

Gay  tenant  of  the  stream, 
Has  plunged  into  its  hidden  depths, 

And  vanished  like  a  dream; 
And  now  on  couch  of  radiant  shells, 

Forgets  the  coming  day, 
When  from  the  wanton  wave  he  leaps, 

The  cruel  angler's  prey, 
And  all  that  breathed,  or  all  that  moved, 

Had  sought  their  place  of  rest; 
The  night  was  calm,  and  still,  and  fair, 

In  golden  colors  dressed. 


IV 


But  hark  !  a  swell  of  murmurs  strange, 

From  coverts  in  the  hills, 
Deep  as  an  organ's  volumed  tone, 

The  night-air  slowly  fills ; 


46  ECHOES  FROM  THE 

And  now  it  rises,  dirge-like  note, 

Unto  the  cloudless  blue, 
The  midnight  song  of  mountain  fays, 

And  Gnomes  of  dusky  hue; 
For  there  are  forest  fairies  here, 

Who  from  the  caverned  shades 
Come  forth  and  hold  their  revels  loud, 

In  lonely  mountain  glades. 
Upon  the  snowy  giant's  crown, 

As  hand  in  hand  they  go, 
.The  phantom  host  in  festal  glee 

Leer  down  on  us  below. 
They  scowl  at  all  that's  innocent, 

Enchanters  of  the  wood, 
And  try,  by  all  the  tempter's  art, 

To  overcome  the  good. 
O  step  not  in  their  magic  ring, 

At  midnight  in  the  glen, 
Or  shining  glamour  fades  away — 

Thou  art  the  demons'  then! 
Hear  not  the  mountain's  clear  cut  chime, 

Nor  listen  to  its  moan, 
Nor  search  its  hidden  rocks  of  gold, 

When  night  is  on  her  throne. 


But  still  the  blue  sky  smiles  above, 
So  saintly  and  so  fair, 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  47 

And  wild  flowers  whisper  as  they  hear 

These  voices  of  the  air. 
Soft  voices  charm  to  dreams  unsought, 

In  nature's  temples  then, 
And  in  the  valley  all  is  peace, 

At  midnight  in  the  glen. 
There  is  an  eye,  by  day  or  night, 

Its  vigils  still  will  keep, 
On  mountain  crest  and  valley  lone, 

Where  mortals  weary  sleep; 
So  thou  but  trust  thine  all  to  Him, 

And  to  His  words  be  true, 
Nor  mountain  sprite,  nor  midnight  Gnome, 

Can  harm  bring  unto  you. 


WHITE  MOUNTAINS,  July,  1882. 


48  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


LIKE  TO  A  WATER  COURSE." 

LUCAN,  SAT.  IV.,  182. 

How  gently  all  the  days  glide  by; 

Like  shadows  come,  in  bubbles  go ; 
The  rippling  hours  pass  quietly, 

Like  to  the  streamlet's  noiseless  flow. 


These  are  the  careless  days  of  youth, 
When  ev'ry  hour  is  glad  and  free; 

The  heart  is  fresh,  and  full  of  truth, 
Ere  wrecked  on  Time's  resistless  sea. 


The  brook  becomes  a  river  soon, 

The  child  a  man  at  length  will  grow  ; 

His  morning  merges  into  noon, 
As  waters  gather  in  their  flow. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  49 

The  rill  was  clear — the  larger  stream 

Is  dark  and  turbid  in  its  bed; 
Such  doth  the  face  of  boyhood  seem, 

And  such  when  years  roll  o'er  the  head. 

The  river  reaches  ocean's  tides, 
Is  lost  in  wand'ring  in  the  wave, 

And  man,  who  on  Time's  surface  rides, 
Is  soon  forgotten  in  the  grave. 


50  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


DOUBT. 

STILL  doth  the  vital  spark  remain, 

Another  Winter  multiplies 
The  doubts,  the  hopes,  the  joy  and  pain 

Of  years  long  past ; 
This  troubled  siege  of  vain  surmise, 

Will  it  forever  last? 

Are  there  no  certainties  in  view, 
Nothing  to  which  the  mind  can  cling? 

Some  sweet  existence,  sure  and  true ; 
Something  we  feel, 

To  the  fevered  sense  will  bring, — 
An  opiate  to  heal? 

Or  like  yon  dark  and  wintry  sky, 
Despair  its  gloomy  shadow  flings 

About  the  soul  so  blightingly, 
That  hope  expires : 

All  scorched  the  heart's  most  limpid  springs, 
All  quenched  its  brightest  fires. 


NOTE.— Written  in  Missouri. 


HIGHLAND    HILLS.  51 


Glorious  spirit  of  this  frame, 

Thou  art  not  thus  a  slave ; 
Awake! — to  bolder  thoughts — for  shame! 

Break  through  this  chain 
That  makes  thy  traitor  doubts  thy  grave, 

And  be  thyself  again. 

Beautiful  is  reason  ;  but  with  Faith 
The  weak  clay  radiates  with  light  ; 

A  glory  strange  will  fill  the  brow, 
A  lightning  thrill 

Pervade  the  frame,  and  gild  the  night 
With  an  electric  will. 

The  fearful  heart  will  melt  in  joy ; 

Weakest,  when,  with  a  giant's  might, 
The  very  elements  its  toy, 

Are   made — defied, 
Again  to  damp  the  spirit  bright, 

Once  shrinking  by  their  side. 

Melt,  0  heart,  in  solemn  prayer, 
And  seek  for  courage  firm  on  high  ; 

Let  Faith  soar  through  the  viewless  air, 
Breathe  the  pure  flame, 

And  drink  in  that  divinity 
Earth  can  not  give  or  tame. 


52  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


"DREAMS  HAVE  THEIR  DEVELOPMENT." 

— Shelley. 

ALONG  Missouri's  turbid  stream 

The  sunset  fell, 
With  golden  glow,  in  dying  beam, 

That  trembled  fitful  on  the  wave 
With  gentle  swell, 

Or  wandered  into  darksome  cave. 

Musing  on  the  buried  past, 

In  reverie  lost, 
Among  fading  hues  too  bright  to  last, 

A  stranger  by  the  stream  reclined, 
By  memory  tossed, 

And  the  impulse  of  his  former  mind. 

He  dreamed  of  far-off  days  of  song, 

When  from  each  grove 
Soft  chastened  music  floated  along 

On  the  balmiest  Autumn  air, 
When  life  was  love, 

And  earth  and  morn  were  young  and  fair. 

NOTE. — By  Missouri  River,  1858. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  53 


Airy  and  full  of  frolic  grace, 

Lovely  to  sight, 
Strangely  beautiful  in  form  and  face, 

Ambition  to  his  dreams  appeared, 
Seeming  to  invite 

Where   now     enchanting     melodies     were 
heard. 

Where  sweetest  fruit,  blushing 

On  the  cool  spray 
Of  most  brilliant  fountains,  gushing 

Up  from  the  green,  grassy  sod, 
'Mid  scenes  ever  gay, 

Where  no  labor  swayed  its  rod. 

Life  has  its  fittest  image  here, 

As  it  should  be; 
Lovely  and  pleasing ;  no  fear,  no  care  ; 

Poetic  taste  and  sentiment, 
From  the  gross  flesh  free, 

On  hopeful  youth  and  heart  are  blent. 

While  thus  he  dreamed,  a  cloud 

Came  o'er  the  scene, 
But  hid  not  hearse,  and  pall  and  shroud, 

And  saddened  mourner  close  behind, 
The  same  that,  'midst  this  green 

Calypso  haunt, so  charms  the  dreaming  mind. 


54  ECHOES  FROM  THE 

Ambition  fades;  toil  shades  his  eyes; 

A  mist  was  spread ; 
He  saw  work-shops,  with  amazed  surprise, 

And  toiling  inmates,  to  whom  day 
Brought  strife  for  bread, 

To  whom  Duty  was  Faith's  brightest  ray. 

Faith  indeed  was  there, 

A  shape  divine, 
More  beautiful  with  her  lines  of  care, 

More  happiness  in  her  gentle  smile, 
Than  all  the  speculations  fine, 

And  idle  dreamings  which  the  soul  beguile. 

The  stranger  saw  a  cheerful  home, 

Gained  by  patient  toil; 
Then,  urged  by  trust  in  better  days  to  come, 

His  dreaming  ceased,  and  he  began 
To  shake  off  the  coil 

That  bound  him,  and  arose  a  truer  MAN. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  55 

IMPROMPTUS. 

THIS  village  is  called  a  model  place  ; 

May  glory  encircle  its  brow ; 
Its  people  are  sadly  minus  in  grace, 

Though  troth  they  are  graceless  enow. 


Blue  and  calm  the  gentle  sky, 
Softly  bubble  the  waters  by ; 
Heaven  above  us,  heaven  around  us, 
No  art  of  man  to  cramp  and  bind  us. 
Far  away  all  busy  matters, 
Far  away  the  footstep  patters ; 
Here,  beneath  the  forest  trees, 
Let  us  take  our  quiet  ease. 


Living  is  a  humbug, 
All  of  us  know  it ; 

Death  is  a  blessing — 
"Pray,  sir,  show  it." 


56  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


What  a  de'il  of  a  shame  ; 

Indeed,  you're  to  blame, 

That  a  man  of  your  name  — 

So  ancient  a  name  — 
Should  foolishly  throw  away  fame, 
Should  scornfully  toss  away  fame, 

And  think  it  sublime, 

And  call  it  sublime, 

To  grab  at  a  dime, 

To  catch  at  a  dime, — 
Like  all  the  world  catch  at  a  dime, 
Like  all  the  world  die  for  a  dime. 


How  sadly  rings  the  Autumn  blast, 
In  mournful  tones,  that  Summer's  past  ; 
The  days  have  shortened,  nights  are  dreary, 
The  falling  leaves,  like  age,  are  weary  ; 
The  sullen  winds  now  rule  the  hour, 
And  teach  us  all  grim  Nature's  power  ; 
All  beauty  fades  and  dies  away, — 
Type,  0  man,  of  thy  sure  decay. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  57 


GOLD. 

Powers  of  beauty,  charms  of  love, 
Earth's  gifts  below  and  hopes  above  ; 
Glory  of  wisdom,  light  of  mind, 
Fireside  Lares,  affections  kind, 
Must  ye  all  bend  to  world's  base  law, — 
That  cash  alone  can  give  us  stamina! 
That  court  you  must  dame  Fortune  blind, 
If  aught  of  this  world's  sneer  you  mind. 
Go  seek  for  gold ;  don't  seek  in  vain, 
But  get  your  niche  in  marts  of  gain. 
This  gives  you  place,  and  magic  name, 
Where  brokers  dwell  with  gilded  fame; 
Do  this,  or  pass  to  shadowy  grave 
With  broken  hopes,  which  cannot  save 
Your  toes  from  tread  of  rich  and  great ; 
For  this,  alas !  is  poor  man's  fate. 
So  press  on  quick,  break  through  the  cloud, 
And  march  along  with  Mammon's  crowd; 
In  hell  you'll  see  the  Gold-god's  face, 
And  take,  for  aye,  your  destined  place. 


58  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


TO  A  YOUNG  HUSBAND. 

Constant  shine  the  stars  by  night, 

Calm  and  pure  their  holy  light, 

In  the  vaults  of  ebon  sky, 

When  the  evening  shadows  die. 

See  these  emblems  true  above, 

Perfect  peace  and  perfect  love  ; 

Then  hold  thy  bride  near  to  thy  heart, 

Be  true  to  her  till  life  depart ; 

For  her  soul,  in  trust  to  thee, 

More  constant  is  than  stars  you  see. 

Richer  than  all  earth's  countless  gems, 

All  thy  love  her  true  heart  claims; 

No  fears  has  she,  in  faith  divine 

All  her  confidence  is  thine. 


ON  THE    SAME. 


The  mist  was  on  the  mountains, 
And  the  dew  upon  the  thorn, 

And  sparkle  in  the  grasses 
Upon  our  wedding  morn. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  59 


The  woman  gave  to  me  her  life 

Without  a  murmuring  word ; 
The  mist  gave  way  to  sunshine 

As  she  spoke  the  fateful  word. 
A  dirge  to  all  old  bachelors, 

A  wreath  for  my  lady  gay ; 
A  smile  for  the  charming  bridesmaids, 

A  health  to  the  wedding  day. 


60  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


TO  MY  CIGAR. 

SWEETLY  it  curled  through  the  evening  air 

In  wavy  wreaths  toward  the  azure  sky, 

Gracefully  twisting  on  high, 
Suggesting  visions  bright  and  fair  ; 

A  looming  castle  forms, 

Now  clouds  portending  storms, 
And  then,  Chameleon  like,  new  shapes  assumes, 
'Till,    tired,   coquettish     thing,    its     early   hue 

resumes. 

Heavenly  art  thou— Spanish  cigar; 

Violets  have  no  fragrance  like  to  thine  ; 

By  many  a  forest  shrine, 
Welcoming  the  evening  star, 

The  meditative  thought, 

The  absent  loved  ones  brought, 
To  thee  I  owe,  parent  of  a  gentle  creed, 
Ethereal,  dusky,  Indian  weed. 


NOTE— An  early  rhyme  for  the  press,  in  Clermont  Courier,  18o5. 


HIGHLAND     HILLS. 


61 


Brilliant  stars  of  the  Summer  night, 

Thy  radiance  falls  on  hill  and  stream; 

Oft  hy  a  transient  beam, 
'Neath  crags  revealing  jewels  bright, 

With  a  social  cigar, 

I  gaze  at  thee  afar, — 
Afar  in  the  depths  of  the  limitless  bhu.1, 
Glorious  types  of  the  beautiful,  holy  and  true. 

Thou  wondrous  wise  yet  silent  sage, 

My  choicest  friend  through  changing  years, 

If  ever  shall  come  the  cares, 
The  restless  whims  and  griefs  of  age, 

Through  thy  smoke  I  can  smile 

At  the  world  and  its  guile, 
And  if  fastened  for  aye  in  woman's  sweet  net, 
THEE,  O  precious  Havana,  I  cannot  forget. 


62  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


'TWAS  ON  A  STARRY  NIGHT. 

TWAS  on  a  starry  night  in  June; 

The  Summer  then  was  in  its  pride, 
And  softly  gleamed  the  silver  moon 

Upon  Ohio's  rippling  tide  ; 
When  through  the  forest  dense  I  strolled, 

Nor  gave  a  thought  to  objects  near, 
For  thou,  sweet  lass,  it  must  be  told, 

Were  to  my  fancy  then  most  dear. 

I  thought  but  of  your  sparkling  eyes, 

The  raven  tresses  of  your  hair, 
Where  Cupid,  watching,  ready  lies, 

The  gazer's  senses  to  ensnare. 
Though  time  and  care  may  bend  me  down, 

And  troubles  may  my  freshness  sear, 
Yet  still  my  heart  will  always  own 

That  thou  to  me  art  ever  dear. 

Maysville,  Ky.,  1850. 

NoTE-See  poem  "Constancy,"  on  page  76,  a  sequel  to  this. 


HIGHLAND     HILLS.  63 


TO  THE  GIRL  OF  MY  HEART. 

WHILST  the  Earth,  with  sunset  glory, 

Seems  to  mock  the  raptured  eyes, 
And  from  copse  and  silent  water, 

Shadowy  vapors  slowly  rise; 
And  the  song  of  birds  is  fading, 

Like  our  early  dreams  of  love, 
I  behold  the  starlight  creeping, 

From  the  azure  vault  above. 

The  hour  recalls  old  memories, 

Memories  crowned  in  burnished  gold; 
And  my  heart  is  filled  with  gladness, 

As  the  sunlight  fills  the  wold. 
A  spirit  threads  my  lonely  chamber, 

Spirit  with  an  aspect  bright, 
Seems  to  be  about  me  flitting 

While  a  mist  enshrouds  my  sight. 

NOTE.— On  a  Clermont  County  farm,  I85o. 


64  ECHOES  FROM  THE 

Why  breathes  the  image  words  of  sorrow, 

Words  of  sorrow  and  of  doubt? 
Why  does  it  change  my  joy  to  mourning 

As  the  cypress  waves  without  ? 
Whilst  its  dark  eyes,  rich  with  meaning, 

Flash  upon  my  musing  mood, 
Like  a  star  might  pierce  the  darkness 

Of  some  ancient  beechen  wood. 

Why  this  glance  of  sad  inquiry  ? 

Why  this  voice  of  softened  tone  ? 
Is  thy  grief  forever  banished, 

And  thy  phantom  doubts  all  gone  ? 
Tell  me,  wilt  thou,  gentle  beauty, 

By  the  stars  so  mild  and  bright, 
Crown  me  once  again  with  gladness, 

As  the  moon  exalts  the  night? 

Quell  thy  murmurs,  lady  charming, 

Lull  the  storms  within  thy  breast; 
Like  the  ocean,  calm  and  peaceful, 

Gently  sink  thyself  to  rest. 
Leave  to  me  the  gloomy  cypress, 

Let  it  all  my  pleasures  mar; 
Leave  my  soul  on  skyward  pinion, 

Soaring. off  to  greet  the  star. 


HIGHLAND    HILLS.  65 


The  spirit  is  an  odorous  flower, 

It  but  thrills  by  sweetness  wild; 
The  stars  in  colored  arch  of  heaven 

Suit  but  the  whims  of  dreamy  child; 
Let  both  be  types  of  hope  and  beauty, 

Which,  like  blending  waves  of  sea, 
Tremble  through  the  heart's  dim  chambers, 

To  at  last  unite  in  thee. 


66  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


DO  I  THINK  OF  THEE? 

0  THOU  bright  and  joyous  maiden, 
By  the  sky  above  me  bending, 
By  the  sky-lark's  upward  tending, 
By  thy  presence  beauty  lending, 
I  do  think  of  thee  I 

Thou  who  hast  my  heart's  devotion, 
By  the  rose  with  dew-drops  shining, 
By  the  hedge  that  rose  -is  twining, 

By  the  clouds  in  airy  motion, 
I  do  think  of  thee! 

Ah!  these  symbols  ever  fleeting, 

Not  by  them  I  would  convey 

Thoughts  which  'round  thine  image  stray, 
But  by  love's  own  pulses  beating, 
I  do  think  of  thee  ! 

Lady,  may  the  twilight  kiss  thee, 
And  with  lips  of  sweetest  balm, 
In  some  hour  of  musing  calm, 

Whisper  at  even,  how  I  miss  thee, 
How  I  think  of  thee. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  67 

IMPROMPTUS. 


AFAR  I  see  thee  in  this  place, 
I  gaze  upon  thy  dreamy  face, 

And  turn  away  and  sigh  ; 
My  soul  doth  shrink  as  I  gaze  at  thee, 
For  I  know  such  beauty  like  the  sea, 
Coquettish  scorns  a  man  like  me, 

Whose  love  shows  in  his  eye. 


Before  the  vision  see  a  gorgeous  scene, 
A  wide  savanna  of  eternal  green, 
So  far  extended  that  its  ocean  hue 
At  length  seems  mingled  with  the   sky's   deep 
blue. 

On  the  prairie. 


In  glittering  car 

From  out  the  purple  East, 
With  pomp  Apollo  comes, 

Lord  of  the  feast : 


68  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


His  golden  sparkles 

Glisten  in  the  streams; 
The  ancient  woods 

Warm  up  to  greet  his  beams; 
The  gurgling  waters 

Foam  in  bubbles  bright; 
The  Spring-clad  verdure 

Glares  upon  the  sight, 
And  the  village  wakes 

'Mid  arrowy  lines  of  light. 

Sunrise. 


Cloud  in  mantle  dark  and  gray, 
Hide  from  sight  the  garish  day; 
Let  mellow  tinges  fill  the  hazy  sky, 
And  calm  and  gently  daylight  die, 
And  while  the  charm  is  on  each  tree, 
Wander,  my  heart,  0  love,  to  thee. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS. 


A  FACT. 


Two  Clermont  brothers,  as  the  story  goes, 
Who  married  sisters,  each  had  woes. 
Each  husband  loved  his  brother's  wife, 
And  then  began  an  endless  strife ; 
Which,  to  conclude,  the  neighbors  tell, 
They  traded  wives,  and  all  went  well. 
They  followed  that  old  Roman,  Cato, 
(Though  neither  had,  perhaps,  read  Plato) 
Who,  when  his  lady  proved  contentious, 
Kindly  loaned  her  to  his  friend,  Hortensius. 


0  day  of  splendor. 

Day  of  life  and  glee, 
Shine  thou  on  all 

With  joy,  save  me; 
For  I,  with  soul 

So  bowed  with  care, 
Envy  the  birds 

Whose  pinions  gleam  in  air, 
And  have  no  heart 

For  aught  that  seems  so  fair. 


In  sickness. 


70  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


Hazy,  balmy,  Indian  Summer, 

Golden  days  of  Autumn  glory  ; 
Lazy,  dreamy,  rich  October, 

Passing  by  'mid  sunsets  gory; 
Somber  Winter,  Winter  sober, 

Sighing  comes  decayed  and  hoary, 
Muse  we  all  on  splendors  past, 
Indian  Summer  cannot  last. 
Closing  on  us,  harsh  November, 

Leafless  forests,  woods  forlorn, 
Dreary  weather;  short  days  gloomy  ; 

Sol  the  while  in  Capricorn. 
Cheerful  fires  in  places  roomy, 

As  we  "  double  'round  the  horn,  " 
Listening  to  the  ancient  liar, 
In  his  seat  by  grocery  fire, 
Tell  us  all  about  hard  Winters, 

All  the  wiles  of  politicians, 
Wars  and  gossip,  murders  bloody, 

Who  is  sick,  and  what  physicians; 
Talk  of  lawyers,  also  preachers, 

Show  the  ways  of  sharp  tacticians. 
To  listen,  we,  but  his  to  talk, 
He  makes  us  all  walk  up  to  chalk. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  71 


Soft  o'er  the  village  the  gray  dawn  is  stealing, 

Tinging  the  landscape  in  beauty  and  grace; 
Shadows  are  falling  from  house-top  and  ceiling, 

Shadows  are  resting  on  baby's  sweet  face. 
Silently,  gently,  the  darkness  is  shrinking, 
New  life  the  morning  is  eagerly  drinking. 
Lovingly  stepping,  Aurora  comes  sighing, 

Where  the  sweet  baby  is  fading  away  ; 
Hazy  his  forehead  ;  see,  he  is  dying! 

Aurora  has  opened  the  gates  of  the  day, 
And  clasping  the  spirit  from  dead  baby  riven, 
Ha*  left  with  the  living  a  brief  smile  of  heaven. 


1876. 


The  Past,  why  should  we  e'er  regret  it  ? 
'Tis  gone,  so  let  us  all  forget  it. 


72  ECHOES  FROM  THE 

Heaven  shield  thee,  heaven  bless  thee  ; 

Life  be  filled  with  happy  hours; 
Fortune  guard  thee,  fortune  watch  thee  ; 

Fate  strew  thy  path  with  flowers. 
If  I  love  thee,  do  not  scorn  me, 

Still  my  prayers  are  for  your  sake, 
Thinking  of  thee ;  can't  forget  thee, 

Passing  through  life's  giddy  wake. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  73 


THE  LUXEMBOURG. 

(TO  MY    COUSIN,    MRS.    F.    W.    ARMSTRONG,    PARIS,    JULY 

21,  1883.) 

WE  saw  the  Sculptor's  art  in  stone, 

And  cunning  skill  in  bronze  and  gold  : — 
From  painted  canvas  on  us  shone 

The  Heroines  of  ages  old. 
The  faultless  form,  the  classic  face, 

The  soul  which  glows  in  passion  there ; 
The  nameless  charm,  the  high-born  grace, 

Which  makes  each  lady  seem  so  fair. 

The  roses  bloom,  the  fountains  play. 

Serene  and  cold,  in  marble  grand, 
The  Queens  who  ruled  in  by-gone  day 

Illustrious  on  the  Terrace  stand, — 
Marguerite  de  Provence,  proud  and  fair, 
arguerite  de  Valois,  false  and  vain  ; 
Marguerite  Splendid,  of  Navarre, 

Marguerite  of  Anjou,  doomed  to  pain. 

NOTE— Mr  F.  W.  Armstrong  was  educated  in  Paris,  and  passed  daily 
through  the  Jardin  de  Luxembourg  to  school  in  the  Latin  Quartier,  to 
which  allusion  is  made  in  the  poem.— 


74  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


The  Troubadour  their  praises  sung, 

The  armored  knight  set  lance  at  rest ; 
Great  Princes  on  their  accents  hung,— 

To  die  for  them  was  to  be  blest. 
For  them  the  tocsin  called  to  war, 

The  soldier  lonely  vigils  kept; 
The  moon  from  sky,  in  Crescent  car, 

Smiled  on  the  spot  where  Beauty  slept. 

Where  gleams  the  Lake  in  shadow  there, 

A  school-boy  stooped  his  head  to  lave ; 
Or  on  yon  seat,  when  free  from  care, 

He  gazed  at  Tritons  in  the  wave. 
Where  giant  trees  o'erspread  the  lawn, 

Saw  then,  as  now,  in  regal  state, 
These  marble  Queens — that  sculptured  Faun, 

A  Cupid  here  and  there  a  Fate. 


Beneath  the  same  deep  azure  sk}r 

His  path  lay  here — in  boyish  glee 
To  studies  then;  but  now  a  tie 

Still  stronger  binds  his  life  to  thee  ! 
With  modest  thought,  and  gentle  creed, 

O  study  well  each  other's  weal, 
Which  pulseless  Hebes  do  not  heed, 

Or  stately  Courtiers  think  or  feel. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  75 

And  turn  from  all  these  gems  of  Art, 

To  husband,  daughter,  near  and  dear, 
And  kinsman's  warm  and  friendly  heart, 

Which  envies  not  the  splendor  here. 
For  in  these  Gardens,  once  of  Eld, 

This  haughty  Lord,  that  jewelled  Dame, 
Their  gilded  revels  nightly  held, 

While  France  lay  reeking  in  its  shame. 

For  thee  a  nobler  lyric  crown, 

It  cannot  deck  a  fairer  brow  ; 
May  Time  press  lightly  with  his  frown 

Where  youth  and  sunshine  cluster  now. 
And  when  is  reached  Eternal  seas, 

And  sullen  tempest's  moaning  roar, 
May  HE,  who  calms  the  rising  breeze, 

Guide  thee  and  thine  to  Golden  Shore. 

In  Highland  Hills,  in  gladsome  Spring, 

While  bubbling  waters  soothe  the  ear, 
At  Winter  eve  will  memory  bring 

Again  these  scenes  which  linger  here. 
The  sculptured  forms  in  dreams  will  rise, 

This  charming  music  make  refrain; 
These  phantoms  pass  before  the  eyes,— 

The  Luxembourg  return  again. 


76  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


CO  NST  ANC  Y. 

HE  wrote  her  name  in  all  his  books, 

And  carved  it  on  the  trees; 
He  heard  it  in  the  murmuring  brooks, 

And  whispering  in  the  breeze. 
'Twas  music  in  the  mountain  glades, 

In  meadows  green  or  brown  ; 
By  torrent's  rush,  in  forest  shades, 

In  grassy  lane  or  town. 

,  At  morning's  blush,  and  evening's  gloam, 

She  held  his  sense  in  thrall ; 
At  church,  or  ball,  at  school  or  home, 

She  was  his  all  in  all ! 
He  loved — or  thought  so;  — sadid  she, 

And  on  Kentucky's  shore 
They  pledged  eternal  constancy, 

To  last  forevermore  ! 


NOTK— See  lines,  "  '  Twas  on  a  Starry  Night,"  in  this  book,  on  page  62. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  77 


They  parted— 'twas  with  tears  and  sighs. 

Like  lovers  who  were  older  ; 
He  kissed  her  forehead  and  her  eyes, 

She— wept  upon  his  shoulder. 
When  shall  they  meet  ?  And  how,  and  where? 

Can  time  their  hearts  dissever? 
0  no!— by  Earth,  and  Sky,  and  Air, 

No!  —  never!  never!  never! 

The  years  flew  by— they  met  again, 

And  did  not  know  each  other; 
She  tried  to  call  his  name  in  vain, 

He— thought  she  was  her  mother. 
The  angel  of  the  school-boy's  lays* 

Had  lost  her  glory  now  ; 
No  longer  love's  all-glowing  rays 

Saw  halos  'roun     her  brow. 

No  raven  tresses  met  the  view, 

No  braids  in  charming  grace ; 
The  hair  was  dyed— its  dingy  hue 

Was  suited  to  the  face 
Where  once  had  shone  those  lustrous  gems 

So  sparkling. with  delight; 
Green  goggles,  with  their  circled  rims, 

Now  met  the  gazer's  sight. 


*  "Tempora  mutanter  et  nos  mutamur  in  Hits."    At  40. 


78  ECHOES  FROM  THE 

Were  they  sad,  or  broken-hearted? 

Did  they  act  the  fool  ? 
Talk  of  days  so  long  departed, 

In  novels  that's  the  rule  ? 
O  no !  but  rather,  quantum  *uff— 

Of  weather,  crops  and  oil, 
Of  Bourbon,  mules,  tobacco,  snuff, 

Of  blue-grass,  and  the  soil ; 

And  of  her  husband,  who,  'twas  said, 

Like  Midas,  king  of  old, 
Though  asses  ears  adorned  his  head. 

Had  coffers  lined  with  gold. 
Again  they  parted^-nothing  more, 

The  past  was  mentioned  never/ 
Are  these  the  same,  who  long  before 

Had  pledged  their  feith/orawf 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  79 


ABSENT. 

ABSENT  Ella,  absent  Ella, 
All  alone  art  thou  to-night; 

All  alone  am  I,  dear  Ella, 
By  my  study  fire's  red  light. 

Art  thou  lonely,  gentle  Ella, 
Lonely  when  away  from  me  ? 

I  am  lonely,  0  so  lonely  ; 

Should  I  not  be  when  from  thee? 

I  listen,  for  thy  footsteps,  Ella, 
Fall  like  music  on  the  ear ; 

All  is  silent,  save  the  echo, 

Whispering,  u  Ella  is  not  here.  " 

Shadows  flit  across  my  musings, 
Shadows  spread  along  the  floor ; 

Shadows  full  of  memories 

Peer  through  my  chamber  door. 

Something  to  my  spirit  utters, 
Ella  weeps !  she  is  in  sorrow ; 

Is  she  weeping  in  her  absence  ? 
I  will  fly  to  her  to-morrow. 


80  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


TO  HER  WHO  UNDERSTANDS  THEM. 

AH!  toss  that  witching  fairy  head, 

No  Zephyr  from  the  bright  blue  sea, 
With  wilder  joyance  drops  its  curls 

Amidst  the  blossoms  of  the  lea. 
And  turn  again  that  swimming  glance, 

And  let  me  dream  awhile  of  heaven, 
The  purple  glory  of  the  sky, 

The  weird,  wild  star  of  even. 

Ah !  once  again  that  love  crowned  smile, 

On  Como's  lake,  the  wave  all  bright, 
With  vernal  hues  and  azure  sheen, 

Does  not  shed  forth  such  gladdening  light. 
And  breathe  again  those  magic  words, 

That  thrill  the  soul  with  choral  song, 
Those  tones  that  waft  the  spirit  by, 

Groves  and  choral  halls  among. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  81 

But  why  these  whims  of  fond  desire? 

No  right  have  I  to  claim  thy  love ; 
None  but  to  gaze  as  at  some  bird, 

That  soars  in  yon  blue  vault  above. 
But  oft  the  bird  to  earth  descends, 

And  fills  with  vesper  hymns  the  air; 
Dear  maiden,  be  to  me  that  bird, 

And  break  this  cloud  of  care. 

In  ClermOnt  Courier,  1854. 


82  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


AFTER   MARRIAGE. 

THE  days  of  yore  have  joined  the  past, 
And  buried  are  their  smiles  and  tears, 

While  o'er  my  path  new  hopes  have  cast 
The  light  of  brighter  years. 

I  turn  from  those  receding  hours 
That  now  can  charm  no  more ; 

They  fade  like  withered  Summer  flowers, 
Whose  witchery  is  o'er. 

I  can-not  shed  a  single  tear 

Upon  my  vanished  dreams, 
So  brightly  glows  the  coming  year, 

Tinged  with  the  future's  beams. 

Too  long  ideal  joys  have  shed 
O'er  me  their  spectral  light ; 

Into  a  truer  life  I'll  tread, 
'Till  Day  wanes  into  Night. 

Batavia,  Ohio,  1857. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  83 

The  rose  is  freshened  by  the  dews 

Which  shelter  on  its  breast, 
And  thou,  my  wife,  shalt  be  my  muse, 

The  latest  and  the  best! 

Farewell,  ye  shadows,  and  the  song, 

That  hovered  o'er  my  way, 
For  other  ties  are  still  more  strong, — 

Immutable  as  day. 

Hail!  hail!  thou  bright  and  lustrous  morn, 

All  cloudless  still  shall  be 
The  future ;  let  the  past  now  go, 

Since  Mary  came  with  me. 

For  Mary's  love  is  dearer  far 

Than  all  I  yet  have  won; 
/  sang  it  as  the  evening  star, 

Tis  now  to  me  the  Sun. 


84 


ECHOES  FROM  THE 


IMPRO  MPTUS. 

GOOD  by,  dull  care, 

I  never  share 
My  place  with  such  as  thee, 

But  ever  dare 

To  live  as  rare, 
As  rare  can  ever  be. 


Come  like  shadows,  so  depart; 
Thus  I  cast  thee  from  my  heart; 
Go  and  hide  thee,  for  'tis  past, 
'Twas  my  first  love,  and  my  last. 


At  18. 


There  is  no  joy  in  universal  space, 
'Mid  the  cold  bright  stars  above, 

Save  when  the  watch  of  night  is  given 
To  the  sweet  planet  of  Love. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  85 


IN  AN  ALBUM. 

The  years  roll  by ;  may  I  yet  hope 
That  memory  will  recall  the  past, 

Though  short  our  lives  in  narrow  scope, 
These  lines  will  keep  unto  the  last. 

Time  and  decay  will  blast  our  youth, 
May  this  remembrance  linger  yet, 

How  on  this  day  we  pledge  our  troth, 
In  friendship's  ties,  to  ne'er  forget. 

The  page,  you  see,  is  blurred  by  ink, 
And  blots  have  marred  its  surface  wide; 

'Tis  like  my  faults :  0  do  not  think 
Of  these,  but  of  my  brighter  side. 

Maysville,  Ky. 


ECHOES  FROM  THE 


WHEN  THE  ROSY  CHEEK  IS  PALING. 

WHEN  the  rosy  cheek  is  paling, 

And  the  bright  flush  ebbs  away, 
Autumn  winds  seem  'round  me  stealing, 

Autumn  shadows  'round  me  stray. 
Some  strange  apprehension  thrills  me, 

Like  the  murmur  of  a  stream, 
And  I  see  thee  sadly  floating 

Midst  the  vapors  of  a  dream. 

But  when  swift  thine  eye  is  glancing, 

Like  a  wave  in  sunshine  crowned, 
And  thine  airy  foot  is  dancing, 

Fawn-like  o'er  the  grateful  ground, 
And  thine  eagle  spirit  revels 

In  the  glory  of  the  earth, 
And  thy  sweet  voice  scatters  accents, 

Rich  with  music  and  with  mirth, 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  87 


Then  my  fancy  spurns  the  phantoms, 

Pointing  to  the  dread  unknown ; 
Soars  with  thee  to  golden  castles, 

In  some  far  Elysian  zone ; 
Then  the  world  seems  clothed  in  beauty, 

Hope  and  love  twine  chaplets  fair; 
Youth  enwreathes  the  brow  with  roses, 

Jewels  deck  thine  auburn  hair. 

In  what  mood  shall  I  behold  thee, 

When  the  sunset  melts  afar, 
And  o'er  Miami's  hills  outreaching, 

Shines  the  bright  Hesperian  star? 
Shall  I  hear  thy  drapery  rustling, 

Spirit-like  in  azure  space, 
Shedding  thoughts  of  fairy  gladness, 

Images  of  frolic  grace  ? 

No !  such  unsubstantial  fancies 

Mock  the  soul's  sky-yearning  flight  • 
I  would  see  thy  dark  eyes  flashing 

In  their  own  serial  light ; 
Feel  thy  living  hand,  warm  throbbing, 

In  my  ow-n's  responsive  grasp; 
Know  thyself  in  chasteness  resting 

Trustingly  within  my  clasp. 


88  ECHOES  FROM  THE 

This  may  seem,  0  modest  maiden, 

Vision  of  forbidden  things ; 
Let  it  be  so ;  in  the  desert 

Gush  up  bright  imagined  springs; 
If  they  fade  in  mirage  glowing, 

Still  your  fancy  holds  them  fair; 
So  I  woo  thy  presence,  lady, 

Through  the  breathings  of  the  air. 

Batavia,  Ohio,  in  Clermont  Sun. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS. 


89 


THE  MISANTHROPE. 

"  Homo  sum,  et  humani,  a  me  nil  alienum  puto." 

—Terence. 


SOLITARY  'mid  all  this  stir  of  busy  life  ;  alone, 

He  treads  this  pleasant  earth  a  stranger  to  its  joys 
unknown, 

For  him  no  woman's  love,  no  friendly  grasp  of 
neighbor's  hand, 

No  children's  smiles,  no  mother's  kiss— this  wan 
derer  in  the  land; 

No  mourning  tears  by  him  are  dried,  no  sorrow  fills 
the  breast 

Where  selfish  misery  holds  its  court,  and  soul  is  at 
unrest ; 

When  suffering  lies  along  his  path,  he  turns  in  sul 
len  pride, 

And,  like  the  Levite  and  the  Priest,  "he  takes 
the  other  side." 


90  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


II 

Apart  in  gloomy  state  he  walks,  nor  mingles  with 
his  kind, 

The  road  long  pressed  by  human  feet  suits  not  his 
morbid  mind; 

No  play  for  him,  no  sports  allure,  earth  is  a  desert 
wild; 

Man  loves  him  not,  as  he  hates  man;  0  was  he  e'er 
a  child? 

Or  did  great  Nature,  in  his  case,  reverse  her  com 
mon  rule, 

And  mark  him  with  the  brand  of  Cain— this  soli 
tary  fool  ? 

To  dwell  in  desolation's  halls,  unknowing  and 
unknown, 

Despising  and  despised,  to  walk  his  selfish  path 
alone. 

Ill 

0  seek  for  pleasure  in  this  life,  as  swiftly  pass  the 

years, 
Take  interest  in  your  fellow-men,  their  hopes,  their 

plans,  their  fears; 
Read  of  the  men  whose  monuments  are  builded  in 

the  heart, 
Their  speculations,  goodly  schemes,  where  mankind 

took  a  part. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  91 

In  business,  love,  or  politics,  the  golden  moments 

fly. 

The  busy  man  finds  beauty  still  in  earth,  in  air,  in 

sky; 
Or  if  you  choose  in    Fashion's   throng,  or   churches' 

graver  tone, 
Go  mingle  with  the  human  crowd  who  do  not  live 

alone. 

IV 

Why  lingers  here  this  Ishrnaelite  ?  what  is  his  final 

goal; 

And  will  he  always  be  alone,  this  miserable  soul  ? 
And  still  contemn  our  pleasant  world,  when   in, the 

silent  land 
No  tidal  wave  can  cast  him  back  upon  this  hated 

strand  ? 
Will  he  regret,  upon  that  shore,  the  traveler's   final 

bourne? 
No  feeling  heart  upon  this  globe  for  him  doth  weep 

or  mourn  ; 

And  will  he,  in  Elysian  fields,  still  wander  all  un 
known, 
'Mid  multitudes  of  buried  dead,  still  tread  his  path 

alone  ? 


92  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


ON  THE  SHIP. 

FAIR  Julia,  rosy  as  the  dawn, 
When  dew  is  glistening  on  the  lawn, 

And  morning  light  is  shed, 
Has  crossed  the  river's  surging  tide, 
Papa  and  mamma  by  her  side, 

And  loving  brother  Fred. 

Belgravia  at  her  anchor  lay, 

And  Julia's  heart  was  blithe  and  gay 

As  vessel's  deck  is  pressed, 
For  when  on  Brooklyn's  heights  the  sun 
Shall  cast  the  evening  shadows  dun, 

She'll  be  on  ocean's  crest. 

To  home  a  long  and  lingering  glance, 
Then  bon  voyage  to  sunny  France 

At  tap  of  steamer's  bell. 
There  stands  the  Lady  Mary,  bright, 
With  father,  mother  in  delight, 

And  also  Cousin  Nell. 


NOTE—  Miss  Julia  Kellog,  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  Miss  Mary  Armstrong  and 
Miss  Nelly  Collins,  of  Hillsboro,  Ohio.  The  first  night  on  the  Atlantic 
outside  of  Sandy  Hook,  June  16,  1883. 


HIGHLAND    HILLS. 

Fair  Julia  lived  upon  the  sound 
Which  circles  all  Long  Island  ground, 

Across  the  Empire  Bay; 
And  Lady  Mary,  Cousin  Nell, 
Where  Highland  Hills,  and  shady  dell, 

In  western  sunset  lay. 

The  night  has  hid  the  land  from  view, 
And  sky  and  ocean's  mingled  hue 

Surround  the  children  three; 
And  rushing  waves  and  curling  foam 
Now  dash  upon  the  iron  home 

Upon  the  boundless  sea. 

And  Lady  Mary,  Cousin  Nell, 
And  Julia  fair,  on  billows  swell; 

The  Lord  will  safely  keep. 
This  watchful  Eye,  on  sea  or  shore, 
Is  sentinel  at  danger's  door, 

Where  innocence  doth  sleep. 


93 


ECHOES  FROM  THE 


FROM  MY    STUDIES. 

(CINCINNATI,  1852.) 

COULD  my  heart  unfold  to  thee, 

Dearest  girl,  how  fondly  now 
It  muses  on  thy  loveliness, 

Those  eyes  of  light,  that  matchless  brow, 
That  sweetest  smile, 

That  voice  of  rarest  melody, 
It  could  but  tell  how  these  beguile 

My  soul  from  book's  dull  slavery. 

'Twould  seem  delirium  all, 

This  fairy  land,  where  the  sky 
Kisses  the  velvet  dale  and  stream. 

Warbling  along  in  harmony 
With  the  song 

Of  birds  in  the  foliage  green, 
Flinging  its  jewelled  drops  along, 

So  fair,  so  bright,  so  sweet  a  scene. 


NOTE— In  a  letter  to  a  pupil  in  Oakland  Seminary. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS. 

Rare,  illusive  dream;  'tis  fled, 

As  fade  the  flowers  of  the  Spring ; 
As  fade  the  Dolphin's  golden  hues, 

And  twilight's  gentle  whispering  ; 
The  city  jars 

And  studies  call  the  absent  ear 
From  its  converse  with  the  silent  stars, 

And  yet,  with  all,  thou  still  art  here. 

In  books  thy  glance  is  eloquent; 

I  read,  but  hear  alone  thy  speech ; 
I  see  thy  form ;  —thy  ruby  lips 

With  witchcraft  all  my  senses  teach, 
But  love  divine. 

Law  has  no  charms;  'tis  uninspired, 
It  has  no  touch  of  Love's  pure  wine, 

The  touch  which  has  my  senses  fired. 

"What  is  writ  is  writ.  "     Forgive 

If  aught  displease.     Be  kind  as  fair ; 
The  harp  which  tempts  should  not  repel 

The  wooing  fingers  of  the  air  ; 
So  now  adieu ! 

'Tis  done — and  once  again  the  jar 
Drives  me  from  happiness.     Too  true 

That  all  our  sunlight  smiles  afar. 


95 


96  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


BY  FARM  HOUSE  GATE. 

BY  farm  house  gate,  as  day  goes  out, 
And  shadows  fall,  of  darkened  night, 

The  mists  arise  from  circling  stream, 
And  dim  the  scenic  world  in  sight ; 

The  heart  is  crushed  with  sullen  chill, 

Which  baffles  hope  and  darkens  will. 

To  Maysville  Hills  my  memory 
Wings  its  glorious,  golden  flight, 

Where  boyhood  hopes  and  visions  breathe 
To  boyhood's  soul,  so  glad  and  bright ; 

So  'mid  the  lone  scene  my  lot  is  cast, 

Gleams  the  sunlight  of  the  buried  past. 

Save  hoot  of  owl,  and  frog's  deep  note, 
And  forest's  moanings,  naught  is  heard; 

To  Maysville  home  all  thought  is  turned, 
And  like  some  worn  and  weary  bird, 

With  flagging  wings  and  anxious  eye, 

I  turn  to  home,  and  can  but  sigh. 


NOTE— An  early  rhyme,  1852,  on  a  farm. 


HIGHLAND     HILLS.  97 

For  thou,  Kentucky,  to  my  dreams 

Art  Beauty,  Music,  softest  light ; 
In  all  things  fair;  a  radiant  spot, 

Where  never  came  the  gloomy  night, 
Whose  dusky  shadows  flit  along, 
As  now  the  path  I  trace  in  song. 

In  solitude  the  mind  .will  still 

Preserve  the  tints  of  boyhood's  sky, 

The  sky  where  magic  dwelt,  and  love, 
As  days  and  nights  went  gaily  by  ; 

When  sorrow-  hid  in  dismal  cell, 

Joy  reigned  alone,  bid  grief  farewell. 

The  farm  house  gate  looks  o'er  the  stream, 
Which  murmuring  falls  on  listening  ear  ; 

The  night  wind  wooes  the  forest  trees, 
Nor  other  sound  is  lingering  near; 
I  pause,  and  o'er  the  scene  so  drear 

Send  winging  back  to  boyhood  home 

My  vows  and  love,  'neath  Heaven's  dome. 


98  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


CARE. 

WHO  cuts  so  deep  ? 

Who  cuts  so  strong? 
Who  cuts  for  aye  and  ever? 

Who  brings  us  grief? 

Who  brings  us  tears? 
And  leaves  us -never,  never  f 

'Tis  Care,  my  boy, 

Care,  the  tyrant, 
Ever  cutting  with  his  lash  ; 

None  escape  him, 

None  delude  him, 
Sombre,  silent,  gay  or  rash. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  99 


INVOCATION. 

LORD,  eternal,  uncreated  and  supreme, 

Thy  creature  here  before  thee  bows, 
And  humbly,  on  his  bended  knees,  invokes 

THY  grace  to  aid  his  future  vows. 
Sinful  and  weak,  irresolute  and  vain, 

Without  THY  help  he  cannot  stand; 
Guide  him,  instruct  his  wandering  soul, 

Direct  his  course  to  the  better  land ; 
Teach  him  THY  living  truth,  confirm  his  hope 

Of  heaven,  and  of  eternal  day, 
And  by  THY  light  dispel  the  clouds 

Produced  by  Reason's  glimmering  ray. 


100  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


THE  OLD  LAWYER. 

You  stand  upon  the  summit  now, 
And  look  back  on  your  fading  years ; 

The  wrinkles  creep  upon  your  brow, 
The  heart  is  seared  by  grief  and  tears. 

Your  dreams  were  vain  ;  remorseless  Time 
Has  driven  truth  beyond  your  view  ; 

How  little  seems  the  law  sublime, 
When  fifty  finds  you  poor  and  blue. 

You  see  we  are  but  dreamers  all, 
The  real  facts  we  sternly  meet ; 

Dispel  the  shams  at  Fancy's  call, 
And  all  we  fondly  thought  to  greet. 

Where  is  your  wealth,  where  is  your  fame, 
Where  all  your  hope*  of  happy  life  f 

Have  you  received  more  praise  or  blame 
In  thirty  years  of  Court-House  strife  ? 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  101 


A  TOAST. 

COME,  fill  me  a  cup, 

Come,  fill  me  a  can, 
We'll  drink  success  to  the  LAW  : 

Long  may  it  flourish, 

Long  may  it  nourish 
Men  of  small  brains  and  of  JAW; 

Come,  jingle  your  glasses, 

Toast  all  legal  asses, 
And  those  on  whom  is  their  PAW. 


102  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


DON'T  GIVE   UP! 

LET  not,  0  friend,  your  courage  fail. 
Or  phantoms  e'er  beguile  ; 

Let  not  your  spirit  basely  quail 
If  fortune  doth  not  smile. 

You  see  that  man,  so  old  and  worn, 

His  warfare  nearly  o'er? 
All  luckless  has  his  life-work  been, 

And  troubles  crowd  him  sore. 

Dame  Fortune  sometimes,  fickle  jader 
Turned  him  a  smiling  face, 

But  soon  the  gleams  in  darkness  fade,. 
And  sorrow  filled  their  place. 

But  what  is  life,  that  he  should  care 

How  hard  its  trials  be? 
With  all  his  fellow-worms  he'll  share 

Our  mortal  destiny. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  103 


SLANDER. 

WHAT  matters  it,  my  dear  young  friend, 

What  all  these  tattlers  say? 
They  spend  their  time  in  gossip  foul, 

By  night  as  well  as  day. 
To  them  each  venomed  word  is  sweet, 

Such  poison  is  their  food  ; 
How  dear  to  all  their  craven  souls 

The  slander  of  the  good. 

Beware  of  all  such  vermin  vile, 

Nor  give  them  any  room 
To  use  your  name,  or  quote  your  words, 

Else  you  have  sealed  your  doom. 
From  mouth  to  mouth  the  biting  speech 

Of  slander  circles  'round  ; 
All  virtue's  crushed,  all  honor's  gone 

And  grovels  on  the  ground. 


104  ECHOES  FROM  THE 

From  idle  tongues  and  wicked  hearts 

May  you  be  ever  free, 
And  ne'er  to  you  such  sorrow  bring 

As  they  have  caused  to  me. 
Always  in  life  act  well  your  part, 

By  duty  only  led  ; 
Despise  the  gall  this  snaky  gang 

Will  shower  on  your  head. 

Upborne  by  what  you  know  is  true,  • 

Shun  all  the  shallow  fools 
Who  stir  up  mischief,  unaware 

They  are  but  other's  tools, 
^hus  may  it  be  with  you  and  me, 

To  act  but  for  the  right ; 
Let  reason  guide,  leave  gossip  free 

To  poison  day  and  night. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS. 


UNDINE. 

THE  snow  is  white  upon  the  plain, 
And  necked  the  turbid  river; 

The  storm  is  rattling,  'gainst  the  pane 
From  mountain's  icy  quiver. 

On  Clermont  streams  and  gentle  rills, 
The  time  you  well  remember, 

The  white  snow,  on  Ohio  hills, 
Lay  in  the  bleak  December 

The  happy  years  too  soon  have  fled, 
Since  on  that  night,  so  lucky, 

The  path  in  snow  unto  thee  led 
The  lover  from  Kentucky. 

'Twas  at  a  ball,  by  country  side  ; 

How  sweet  the  country  lasses, 
How  trim  the  rustic  beaux  in  pride, 

As  gazing  in  the  glasses. 

0,  then  you  were  a  belle,  you  know, 
And  danced  with  such  perfection; 

The  rustic  hearts  were  bowed  in  woe 
When  gazing  your  direction. 


105 


106 


ECHOES  FROM  THE 

Kentucky's  humble  Chevalier, 

Most  humble  in  devotion, 
To  find  to  all  you  were  so  dear, 

Took  then  a  serious  notion. 

He  saw  the  witless  rural  youth, 

In  idle  jest  and  gaping, 
Throng  'round  the  lass  so  pure  in  truth r 

And  heard  their  vacant  laughing. 

So,  'neath  an  alcove's  curtained  shade, 
With  heart  in  tumult  throbbing, 

Kentucky  gazed  on  Clermont  maid, 
And  watched  the  monkeys'  bobbing. 

Now  rustling  like  an  Undine  thou, 

In  auburn  curls  and  tarleton, 
My  heart  was  in  my  mouth,  I  vow, 

By  manes  of  Sir  Guy  Carleton. 

'Round  swarm  the  verdant  country  clowns, 

Like  moths  about  a  candle ; 
They  buzz  despite  fair  Undine's  frowns, 

Her  curls  they  almost  handle. 

Poor  fools,  you  simply  singe  your  wings, 

Your  wooing  is  unlucky  ; 
Fair  Undine  all  her  treasure  flings 

To  lover  from  Kentucky. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  107 


So  'neath  the  lamp  light's  fitful  gleam, 
Close  by  the  "Beautiful  River,'' 

We  launched  our  life-boats  in  the  stream, 
To  float  along  together. 

While  our  boat  rides  o'er  the  Rapid's  swell, 
Where  breakers  rude  are  straining, 

We  dream  we  hear  the  wedding  bell ; 
Our  hearts  have  no  complaining. 

0  Undine  mine,  alive  or  dead, 

How,  through  all  earth's  hard  leaven, 
We  see  our  worldly  love  must  lead 
Our  thoughts  alike  to  heaven. 

1  look  into  my  Undine's  eyes, 

I  learned  to  love  so  young  and  fair ; 
I  find  her  heart  is  free  from  sighs, 
There  is  no  shadow  there. 

The  hurtling  shafts  of  Fate  remove, 

And  harmless  pass  the  eyes, 
For  Undine,  in  all  trials,  proves 

An  angel  in  disguise. 

Missouri,  December,  1861. 


ECHOES  FROM  THE 


THIRTY  YEARS   AGO. 

TIME  floods  the  mind  with  chequered  scenes, 

The  current  bears  us  on,  but  yet 
There  lingers,  'mid  the  buried  past, 

Some  memories  we  can  ne'er  forget. 
These  memories  beam  with  light  afar, 

And  as  the  brook,  the  palm-tree's  smile, 
To  pilgrim's  eye  on  desert's  sand 

Their  beauty  doth  the  soul  beguile, 

Ah  !  is  it  Mirage  all  the  while  ? 

Shall  hope  as  in  that  pilgrim  fade, 

When  verdant  slope  and  crystal  stream, 
And  song  and  shapes  of  light  float  from 

The  landscape  like  some  fitful  dream  ? 
If  so,  still  clasp  the  fond  deceit, 

And  cherish  as  a  brighter  thing, 
Than  reason  calls  from  sober  thought, 

However  rich  and  blossoming. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  109 


But  no !  these  memories  are  no  spell, 

To  lure  the  heart  from  truth  away ; 
The  plant  that  glistening  scatters  bloom, 

Encurtained  by  the  diamond  spray, 
Does  not  with  livelier  freshness  cast 

Its  bloom  on  sky  and  earth  below 
Than  we  with  eager  senses  dream ; 

We  live  the  same  as  years  ago. 


1884. 


110 


ECHOES  FROM  THE 


THE  ABBEY  OF  SAINT  DENIS. 

(FRANCE.) 

HERE  lie  the  kings  of  ages  past, 

'Neath  this  old  Abbey's  Fane ; 
In  shapeless  heap  their  bones  are  cast, 

Like  war's  unburied  slain. 
Here  once  their  plumes  in  triumph  waved 

In  bright  and  fair  array ; 
Nought  now  but  names,  on  tablets  graved, 

But  kings !  O  where  are  they  ? 

The  morning  mist  is  floating  o'er 

This  strangest  spot  in  France, 
The  shoes  of  wood  now  pace  the  floor 

Where  rattled  shield  and  lance; 
From  Dagobert  and  Charlemagne, 

To  Bourbon's  awful  fate, 
They  sleep,  these  kings,  no  grief  or  pain, 

In  dreamless  silent  state. 


NOTE— Visited  on  a  Sunday  in  August,  IsS.S. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  HI 


The  centuries  have  darkly  passed, 

So  boundless  in  their  sway, 
Since  Charlemagne's  shrill  trumpet  blast 

Made  listening  slaves  obey. 
The  conquering  chief  his  helmet  doffs, 

The  brandished  sceptre  falls, 
And  silence  reigns  where  vassal  shouts 

Rang  through  the  festal  halls. 

O  curtained  Past !  0  mystic  Past ! 

How  weird  this  place  appears, 
Where  sculptured  kings,  in  marble  cast, 

Recall  the  vanished  years. 
The  dim  Church  flame  in  mockery  throws 

Its  light  on  hopeless  gloom, 
A  taper's  faint  and  flickering  ray 

On  every  kingly  tomb. 

From  Clovis  fierce  to  Louis  grand, 

The  Dead  are  here  inurned, 
Each  slumbrous  form  with  folded  hand 

And  face  to  heaven  turned. 
Beneath  these  vaults,  and  Abbey  dome, 

Immortal  spirits  throng ; 
Wild  Fancy 'here  can  make  its  home, 

And  Poets  weave  their  song. 


112  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


Unrolled  the  Ages  spectral  fly 

With  boding  raven's  wing; 
The  clustering  shades,  in  moaning  sigh, 

Around  our  footsteps  cling. 
Cathedral  lone,  hold  fast  your  gloom 

Where  kings  in  slumber  lie  ; 
Let  all  who  wish  muse  on  the  Tomb, 

Give  me  the  sunlit  sky. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  113 


GOOD    BY. 


GOOD  by  to  the  Island, 

Green  Erin,  good  by  : 
To  the  mists  on  Killarney, 

The  blue  in  thy  sky, 
To  inlets  and  havens, 

The  rocks  on  thy  coast ; 
Thy  true-hearted  people, 

Of  nations  the  boast. 

II 

Good  by  to  Cork  harbor, 

Where  navies  may  ride 
When  storms  stir  the  ocean 

In  anger  and  pride. 
As  fogs  gather  'round  us, 

'Mid  tempest's  harsh  roar, 
As  ship  leaves  the  offing, 

Mv  heart  is  on  shore. 


NOTE— Written  in  Queenstown  harbor.  August  27  1883,  for  some  em 
igrants  going  to  America. 


114  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


III 

And  faith  is  unshaken, 

That  yet  the  red  hand 
Of  Vengeance  will  loosen 

The  chains  from  the  land. 
O  where  is  the  siren 

With  Liberty's  smile? 
O  why  has  she  slighted 

This  sea-circled  isle  ? 

IV 

O  sleeping  or  waking, 

Wherever  thou  art, 
The  tears  that  are  flowing 

Appeal  to  thy  heart. 
May  Freedom  then  hasten 

The  treasure  to  save, 
And  Erin  will  trample 

On  Tyranny's  grave. 


Y 


The  signal  is  given, 
The  flag  at  the  mast, 

The  farewells  are  spoken, — 
With  manv  the  last! 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  115 


The  ship  has  weighed  anchor, 
The  soul  breathes  a  sigh; 

In  sorrow  and  silence, 
0  Erin,  good  by  ! 


116  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


THE  HIGHLAND  HILLS. 

FAIR  glows  the  morn  on  Highland  Hills, 

How  glad  the  sunshine  beams! 
How  green  the  slopes  in  Summer  dress, 

By  Highland's  pleasant  streams! 
Why  stay  so  long  by  household  gate, 

The  parting  word  to  speak  ? 
What  means  this  fullness  of  the  heart, 

This  dampness  on  the  cheek  $ 

'Tis  done  !     Farewell  to  wife  and  home  ; 

Regrets  are  now  in  vain; 
Let  memory  have  her  perfect  work, 

O'er  mind,  and  heart  and  brain. 
Farewell,  the  rock-ribbed  Highland  Hills, 

Each  stream,  and  field  and  tree, 
Nor  still  forget  this  Highland  home, 

When  far  awav  at  sea ! 


NOTE— On  starting  for  Europe,  June  11, 1883. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  117 

When  fading  hues  of  native  shore 

Pass  from  the  lingering  sight, 
And,  round  are  swirling  ocean  waves, 

In  mid- Atlantic's  night ; 
When  language  strange  and  customs  rude 

Assail  the  eye  and  ear, 
Turn  in  the  silent  realms  of  thought 

To  Highland  Hills  so  dear. 

Know  ye  beneath  those  craggy  hills, 

And  on  their  sunny  slopes, 
Are  family,  friends  and  household  gods, 

And  all  your  earthly  hopes. 
Nor  time,  nor  tide,  nor  lands,  nor  seas, 
•  Nor  foreign  cities  grand, 
Can  dim  the  love  of  Highland  Home, 

Where  hills  of  Highland  stand. 


118  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


THE  EMERALD   ISLE. 

WE  sailed  around  this  sea-girt  isle 

One  Summer  afternoon; 
The  ocean  seemed  on  us  to  smile, 

That  happy  day  in  June. 

And  all  is  silent  'neath  the  sky, 

Nor  sound  of  voices  there, 
But  white-gull's  shrill  and  piping  cry 

Upon  the  ocean  air. 

Can  we  forget  this  lovely  day, 
This  green  and  rugged  shore, 

When  first  we  saw  the  Irish  Land, 
Then  part  to  meet  no  more  ? 

Can  time  or  tide  or  poet's  lay, 
Or  seas  which  on  us  smile, 

Make  each  or  all  forget  this  day 
We  coast  the  Emerald  Isle  ? 


NOTE— Written  on  Anchor  Line  Steamship,  "Belgravia,"  while  steam 
ing  up  St.  George's  channel,  July  6,  1883. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS. 

How  fair  our  skies,  how  bright  the  sun, 

This  golden  Summer  day, 
With  Hope's  firm  "Anchor"  at  her  prow, 

"  Belgravia"  rides  the  bay. 

O!  Faith's  firm  "Anchor,"  emblem  fit 
To  brace  the  mourning  heart; 

May  every  soul  on  this  proud  ship 
From  this  faith  never  part. 

The  gilded  hours  went  swiftly  by 

As  o'er  Atlantic  tides, 
'Mid  music,  song,  and  spirits  light, 

Our  vessel  safely  glides. 

Now  fair  the  seas,  and  short  the  hours, 

'Till  landed*  at  our  port ; 
We  are  at  home  in  Irish  waves, 

When  anchor's  penants  float. 

We  see  the  verdured  Irish  coast, 
And  Albion's  haughty  strand; 

Do  not  forget  our  home  at  sea, 
WThen  anchored  on  the  land. 

Soon  we  must  part :  0  where  to  wander, 
Where  to  meet,  ah  !  who  can  tell  ? 

Are  you  ready  for  the  summons? 
Can  you  tell  us  "all  is  well?" 


119 


120  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


Green  will  be  this  charming  island, 
When  thou  and  I,  and  all  are  gone, 

And  the  ocean  still  forever 
Sing  its  mournful  monotone. 

The  seaweed  still  shall  drift  in  foam, 
And  Dolphins  change  their  hue, 

And  Nautilus  spread  its  purple  sail 
'Mid  waters  green  and  blue. 

And  other  eyes  shall  idly  gaze 

Where  sky  and  ocean  meet, 
While  'round  them  spreads  the  wide,  wide  sea, 

A  good  ship  'neath  their  feet. 

Farewell  to  Red-Cross  flag  at  mast, 

Our  emblem  day  by  day ; 
On  English  soil  we  still  will  think 

Of  our  sailing  up  the  bay. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  121 


ERIN. 

(AS  REPRESENTED    IN    ART.) 

WHO  is  she  now  gazing 

Across  the  dark  sea, 
With  girdle  unloosened, 

And  hair  flowing  free? 
With  hand  on  her  forehead, 

And  feet  in  the  wave, 
Ariadne  or  Erin, 

Can  she  be  a  slave? 

The  light-house  is  gleaming 

'Mid  shoals  on  the  shore, 
The  ship  is  now  dashing 

'Mid  breakers'  dull  roar. 
O  why  does  she  linger? 

How  long  shall  she  wait? 
O  tell  us,  dear  Echo, 

What  shall  be  her  fate  ? 

NOTB— Stanzas  for  music.    Liverpool,  Eng.,  July  7,  1883. 


122  ECHOES  FROM  THE 

The  sad  years  are  passing, 

Her  face  has  grown  pale, 
With  traces  of  sorrow, 

0  will  her  hope  fail  ? 
As  gazing,  still  gazing, 

Where  sun  sinks  to  rest, 
For  the  true  Prince  in  armor, 

From  out  of^the  west. 


HIGHLAND     HILLS. 


ALONG  THE  BOULEVARD. 

I  STROLLED,  a  stranger,  on  a  Summer  night, 
Along  the  Boulevard,  with  its  lines  of  light 
And  glamour  gleaming  on  this  fairy  land, 
With  gilded  phantoms  gliding  hand  in  hand, 
From  shining  depths  to  far  horizon  blue. 
No  darkness  here,  but  such  a  radiance,  fair 
As  July  suns,  flood  mid-noon's  Gallic  air; 
The  shadows  creep  and  hide  in  dismal  courts, 
And  leave  the  Boulevard  to  its  festive  sports. 
These  revelers  see  no  pall  or  gloomy  shroud, 
But  gaily  prattle  in  the  thronging  crowd. 
They  hear  no  distant  booming  of  the  bell, 
With  sullen  tone  from  vestibule  of  Hell. 
With  no  belief,  these  creatures  of  a  day, 
When  life  is  o'er,  return  again  to  clay. 
Death  ends  it  all,  and  so  they  pass  along, 
Eriwreathed  in  pleasure,  wine  and  song. 
Here  all  is  magic,  and  the  flashing  eye 
Sees  not  that  all  this  gaudy  life  must  die. 
No  ear  is  turned  to  where  sad  labor  groans, 
And  no  heart  throbs  at  misery's  feeble  moans; 


NOTE— From  Eglise  Madeleine,  to  Oolonne  de  Juillet,  erected  on  spot 
where  the  Bastille  stood.     This  is  the  oldest  of  the  Paris  Boulevards. 


124  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


No  voice  is  heard  to  cast  a  warning  chill, 

Bid  pleasure  cease  and  signal  future  ill, 

For  these  "are  to  the  manner  born,"  while  we 

Live  in  a  far-off  land  beyond  the  sea. 

As  strangers  we  may  muse,  and  idly  gaze 

At  novel  sights  in  wonder  and  amaze; 

As  strangers  join  these  "mummers"  face  to  face, 

And  learn  by  practice  all  their  ease  and  grace. 

These  smiles  are  false,  and  but  an  actor's  part, 

They  charm  the  sense,  but  leave  untouched  the 

heart. 

You  look  in  vain  for  something  good  or  true, 
And  do  at  last  as  all  the  others  do. 
Beware  lest  tempters  w  their  nets  enthrall 
A  soul  forgetful  of  its  duty's  call. 
'Tis  three  A.  M.,  and  waiting  morn  now  peers 
O'er  the  gay  capital,  which  idly  jeers 
And  still  carouses  with  a  ceaseless  din, — 
An  earthly  Pandemonium  of  sin. 
The  dashing  Voiture  with  its  coursers  fleet, 
And  jewelled  Houris  flits  along  the  street; 
And  coaches  rattle  'mid  the  dazzling  sheen 
Of  radiant  vistas  in  the  foliage  green. 
Through  glowing  panes  shine  wondrous  works  of 

art, 

The  spell  of  beauty  to  a  tourist's  heart. 
'Neath  arches,  where  the  Sculptures  nobly  trace 
Triumphant  trophies  of  a  by-gone  race; 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  125 


By  Columns  on  whose  storied  summits  stand 
The  heroes  who  have  glorified  the  land  ; 
By  Cafes,  where  many  a  table  bright 
Jingles  with  glasses  through  the  waning  night; 
By  Ancient  Gates  we  pass  in  dreams  along, 
And  passages  filled  with  mirth  and  song, 
Where  fair  are  all  things,  and  how  glad  and  free 
Seem  those  who  mingle  in  these  scenes  of  glee. 
Do  these  Blue-Blouses,  flitting  here  and  there, 
Who  seem  in  all  this  phantom  life  to  share, 
Deep  in  their  souls  have  keen  desire  to  slay  ? 
And  do  they  wander  here  in  search  of  prey  ? 
Are  victims  marked  by  Fauborg,  Saint  Antoine, 
When  Blouse  shall  rise  to  claim  again  his  own  ? 
W^hen  from  alleys  dark,  and  dismal  den, 
Shall  surge  a  murderous  mob  of  starving  men ! 
Is  there  beneath  this  pageant's  hollow  show 
Volcanic  fires  which  in  their  embers  glow  ? 
Will  Commune  dread  o'er  Paris  once  more  rise,. 
With  terror  burning  in  its  lurid  eyes? 
Shall  Columns  fall  'neath  desolation's  tread, 
And  Palaces  crumble  with  their  weight  of  dead? 
While  fire  shall  waste  these  avenues  and  stalk 
Resistless  through  each  pleasant  Summer  walk, 
Shall  strangers  search  'mid  ruins,  grim  and  bare, 
For  Eglise  Madeleine  with  its  saintly  air, 
Or  Arc  de  Triomphe,  Obelisk,  or  Fane 
Of  Notre  Dame,  and  find  their  search  in  vain?     - 


126  ECHOES  FROM  THE 

'Mid  wreck  of  Revolution's  ghastly  shroud, 
Which  broods  o'er  Paris  in  a  sullen  cloud, 
Will  aught  remain,  except  where  proudly  stands 
The  July  Column,  reared  by  Freedom's  hands? 
Whose  sandaled  Hermes  overlooks  the  place 
Where  fell  the  Bastille  in  its  deep  disgrace ; 
'Tis  on  this  spot,  the  despot's  gloomy  grave, 
No  Frenchman  feels  he  e'er  can  be  a  slave. 
Here  ends  our  stroll,  while  Nemesis  is  dead, 
And  all  the  maskers  nothing  ^yet  may  dread; 
To  them  all  vows  are  false,  all  virtue  lost, 
And  man  upon  a  hopeless  current  tossed ; 
They  know  not  home,  nor  kith,  nor  kind,  nor  kin 
Amid  this  tapestry  of  gilded  sin. 
We,  strolling  strangers,  lookers-on,  alone, 
Have  something  solid  we  may  call  our  own, 
And  turn  in  gladness  to  the  western  sun, 
In  coming  twilight  when  its  course  is  run  ; 
We  see  it  sink  to  rest,  and  evening  star 
Stands  trembling  o'er  a  wave-washed  land  afar; 
We  think  not,  care  not,  for  the  ocean  foam, 
As  thoughts  go  rushing  to  our  far-off  home. 

Paris,  France,  July,  18S3. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  127 


THE  LITTLE  CHILDREN. 

PLAY  on,  dear  children,  have  your  fun. 

Take  pleasure  while  you  may ; 
No  spots  appear  upon  your  sun, 

No  clouds  obscure  your  day. 
Your  cheeks,  like  roses,  blushing  red, 

Life  has  for  you  no  thorn; 
Then  play  till  time  to  go  to  bed, 

And  play  again  at  morn. 

The  years  will  stay  those  little  feet 

Which  now  so  blithely  run; 
And  footsteps  lag  upon  the  street 

When  weary  day  is  done. 
Those  little  hands  will  rougher  grow, 

That  now  can  only  play, 
And  trouble,  then,  the  heart  will  know 

Where  all  is  now  so  gay. 


NOTE— It  will  be  seen  that  the  writer  takes  no  stock  in  the  maxim 
often  spoken,  that  "children  should  be  seen,  not  heard." 


128  ECHOES  FROM  THE 

Those  pretty  eyes  will  lose  their  light, 

The  voice  will  change  its  tone, 
The  tropic  tints,  which  fill  your  sight, 

Will  fade  in  frigid  zone. 
Play  on,  play  on,  this  charming  earth 

Is  made  for  such  as  you; 
For  you  its  beauty,  joy  and  mirth, 

Its  gleams  of  sunny  hue. 


Play  on,  play  on,  and  do  not  mind 

What  cross  old  grannies  say  ; 
Such  people  should  be  deaf  and  blind, 

Play  on,  dear  children,  play. 
Play  on,  play  on,  for  night  will  soon 

Its  sullen  sceptre  sway, 
And  evening  close  on  childhood's  noon. 

Play  on,  play  on,  to-day. 


To-morrow  there  will  quiet  reign, 

Enthroned  in  silence,  where 
This  childish  music  makes  refrain, 

This  laughter  fills  the  air. 
To-morrow  desolation's  gloom 

Broods  o'er  the  empty  hall, 
No  pattering  footsteps  in  the  room, 

No  children's  voices  call. 


HIGHLAND    HILLS.  129 

To-morrow  —  mute  the  little  lips, 

And  still  the  restless  feet; 
The  little  hands  with  marble  tips 

On  pulseless  bosom  meet. 
O  where  is  then  the  noisy  glee, 

The  children's  merry  play, 
The  joyous  romping,  glad  and  free?— 

Let  children  play  to-day! 

My  hair  is  gray;  the  years  have  set 

Their  signet  on  my  brow, 
But  must  I  in  old  age  forget 

The  little  children  now  ? 
'Tis  true  I  cannot  jump  and  run, 

December  is  not  May; 
Don't  mind  me,  children,  have  your  fun; 

Dear  children,  play  to-day. 

Play  on,  play  on,  for  time  is  brief 

To  you,  which  seems  so  long  ; 
And  coming  age,  the  wrinkled  thief, 

Will  hush  your  childish  song. 
Life  is  a  game  where  cheats  abound, 

And  falsehood  wins  the  day ; 
In  childhood  trust  and  truth  are  found — 

Let  children  play  to-day! 

April  12,  1884. 


130  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


ON    DUBLIN    QUAY. 

SLOW  sauntering  with  a  friend,  one  day, 
Along  the  lines  of  Dublin  Quay, 
The  Red  Cross  flag  waved  in  the  light, 
And  Red  Coat  troops  were  in  our  sight; 
Then  Dennis  spoke,  but  with  a  sigh, 
With  burning  cheek  and  flashing  eye  : 
"You  see  from  every  mast  that  flag ; 
Each  fortress  floats  the  hated  rag, 
Emblem  of  England's  might  and  wrong. 
We,  silent,  suffer,  yet  we  long 
The  yoke  to  spurn  from  Celtic  neck, 
Which  drags  us  at  the  despot's  beck. 
Can  it  be  thought  in  us  a  crime, 
The  wish  to  rule  our  native  clime  ? 
Shake  the  long  centuries'  galling  chain, 
And  be  the  lords  of  our  own  domain? 
Must  patriots  hide  in  caverned  glades, 
Or  lie  in  wait  in  forest  shades  ? 
Or  anxious  o'er  the  bounding  wave 
Await  thy  help  the  land  to  save? 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  131 

You  wonder  why,  in  Phoenix  Park, 

Grim  murder  struck  a  shining  mark ; 

Why,  year  by  year,  and  day  by  day, 

In  Irish  land  is  constant  fray, 

And  o'er  this  crushed  and  bleeding  isle 

Assassination  seems  to  smile. 

See  that  Saxon's  insulting  tread, 

He  spurns  the  land  of  Celtic  dead  ; 

On  all  he  fastens  iron  yoke, 

These  murders  doth  himself  provoke. 

Plunders  the  poor,  this  haughty  snob, 

Who  only  lives  that  he  may  rob; 

He  plants  on  us  a  hireling  crew 

Of  thieves,  and  to  exact  their  due 

From  peasant  takes  his  hard-earned  food, — 

His  cow,  his  pig,  his  poor  abode  ; 

Controls  the  purse,  the  sword,  the  trade, 

The  church,  the  lands,  and  has  betrayed 

To  death  this  Naiad  of  the  sea. 

The  soil,  destined  for  brave  and  free, 

This  priceless  jewel  in  Nature's  crown, 

In  dust  and  scorn  treads  rudely  down." 

'  Ticas  thus,  while  walking  Dublin  Quay, 

That  Dennis  spoke  to  me  that  day. 

August  24, 1S83. 


132  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


ESTHER. 

UPON  the  mimic  stage,  in  golden  sheen, 

Ahasuerus,  in  his  robes  of  state, 
And  gentle  Esther,  beauteous  Queen, 

With  Mordecai  weeping  at  the  Persian  gate  ; 
And  Haman,  haughty  in  his  pride  of  place, 

And  charming  Zeresh,  with  her  jewelled  brow, 
And  the  veiled  Prophetess  with  native  grace, 

Rebukes  the  harsh  Median's  cruel  vow. 
We  hear  the  chorus  echo  to  the  sky, 

The  praise  of  Haman,  and  the  favored  few, 
So  soon  to  hang  full  fifty  cubits  high 

On  gallows  built  for  Mordecai  the  Jew. 
Ponder  the  moral  here:  the  proud  should  learn, 

When  they   crush   the   lowly   with    their  bitter 

frown, 
That  in  the  game  of  life  the  tables  turn  ; 

The  poor  rise  up,  the  haughty  tumble  down. 


NOTE— Suggested  on  seeing  the  Oratorio  by  Hillsboro  amateurs. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  133 

May  all  who  scorn  the  humble  peasant's  lot, 

And  in  their  wealth  swell  with  inflated  pride, 
Remember  that  there  is  one  equal  spot 

Where  wealth  and  poverty  lie  side  by  side. 
Perhaps  another  when  in  death  they  meet, 

And   all  shall  stand  before    "The   Great  White 

Throne," 
The  Judge  of  all  will  strike  the  "balance  sheet," 

And  'neath  the  garb  will  recognize  his  own. 
As  gentle  Esther  for  her  race  did  sue, 

And  found  them  favor  in  their  greatest  need, 
So  the  Madonna,  if  the  legend's  true, 

Doth  for  the  humble  ever  intercede. 
Apparel,  though  with  glittering*  jewels  set, 

And  earthly  pride,  and  wisdom's  high  disdain, 
And  kingly  crown,  and  ducal  coronet, 

Are  reckoned  dross,  and  pleaded  there  in  vain. 
Such   pleas   are    k'sham,"  and   when   the   "issue's" 
made, 

They  win  who  here  have  had  the  purest  hearts; 
Though  upstart  greatness  kept  them  in  the  shade, 

'Tis  found  at  last  they  chose  the  better  parts. 


134 


ECHOES  FKOM  THE 


ENGLAND. 

"THE  people  are  but  boorish  masses, 

Their  lordship's  humble,  patient  asses, 

Whose  cry  is  for  queen,  and  church  and  State, 

For  'jukes,'  and  'earls'  and  Derby  the  Great; 

Eat  beefsteak  rare ;  drink  'Hinglish  Hale,' 

And  damn  us  Yankees  'till  their  glasses  fail ; 

Pledge  Wales'  Prince,  the  kingly  rake, 

And  love  him  for  his  mother's  sake. 

Even  though  a  drunkard  and  a  cur, 

A  prince,  in  'Bull,'  will  find  a  worshipper; 

For  Bull  is  loyal,  loyal  to  the  core  : 

He  loves  a  king,  but  loves  his  stomach  more. 

Fill  him  up  with  'hash,'  he'll  never  wince 

At  all  the  actions  of  the  prince  ; 

He  fleeces  strangers,  lives  by  'tips; ' 

Even  his  women  take  their  'nips.' 

Bar-maids  deal  out  the  'hale'  and  gin, 

And  deftly  scoop  the  pennies  in, 

While  beggars  on  the  corner  stand 

And  reach  to  all  the  out-stretched  hand. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS. 


135 


You  pay  for  all  you  see  or  use, 
No  one  will  pounds  or  pence  refuse  ; 
In  all  your  talk  with  great  or  small, 
You  find  the  'shilling'  is  'all  in  all.' 
The  gush  of  Boston's  traveled  fools, 
And  all  who  are  hut  England's  tools, 
Must  not  deceive,  for  this  is  true, 
England's  no  place  for  me  or  you." 
'Twas  thus  in  Paris,  near  the  Bourse, 
A  friend  to  me  did  hold  discourse ; 
As  I  agreed  with  all  he  said, 
I  place  it  where  it  may  be  read. 


136  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


COMING  HOME. 


THE  headlands  have  vanished, 

No  beacons  in  sight, 
O'er  wide  wasting  billows 

We  plunge  into  night. 
The  wind,  how  it  mutters 

And  dashes  the  foam  ! 
So  farewell  to  Europe, 

The  West  is  our  home. 

II 

The  ocean  is  sullen, 

The  mad  waves  are  high, 
The  lightning  is  gleaming 

Athwart  the  black  sky; 
We  care  not  and  fear  not, 

And  calmly  can  rest, 
While  proudly  the  good  ship 

Sails  into  the  West. 
«• 

NOTE— On  steamship  "Illinois,"  September 5,  1883. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  137 


III 

And  welcome  each  morrow, 

Though  fog  may  prevail; 
Let  billows  surround  us 

And  fierce  blow  the  gale, 
Each  gloom  darkened  even 

Has  marked  on  the  chart 
The  leagues  we  have  measured 

To  home  of  the  heart. 

IV 

And  nearer,  still  nearer, 

'Till  bathed  in  the  light, 
The  star-spangled  emblem 

Is  flashed  on  the  sight. 
One  moment  we  linger. 

The  Tender  has  come  ; 
Farewell  to  the  ocean, 

And  welcome  our  home. 


138  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


IN  U  EN  D  O . 

DID  you  see  that  sneer? 
It  spoke  a  puppy's  small  soul  slighted, 
Whose  shallow  hopes  the  lady  blighted, 

Now  passing  near. 

A  poisoned  smile 

Suggesting  that,  he  dare  not  speak, 
But  leaves  a  meaning  which  you  seek; — 

The  lady's  vile. 

A  scoundrel's  leer, 

Which  seems  to  say,  as  she  passed  aloag, 
In  this  craven  mode  of  hinting  wrong, 

She  is  not  pure. 

He  thinks  it  scorn; — 
'Tis  but  a  coward's  sneaking  ire, 
While  envy  burns  his  soul  with  fire, 

Of  malice  born. 


HIGHLAND     HILLS.  139 

A  hint,  a  breath, 
Insinuating  that  or  this, — 
With  venom  of  a  serpent's  hiss, 

Producing  death. 

A  point,  a  sign, 

A  meaning  shrug,  a  hint  obscure, 
To  sully  those  whom  God  made  pure,— 

The  sex  divine. 

This  human  crow 
Looks  not  like  eagle  to  the  sky, 
But  turns  to  earth  with  leering  eye, 

For  something  low. 

A  vampire  foul, 
A  carrion  ghoul,  a  social  spot, 
A  crawling,  creeping,  wretched  blot,— 

Base  slander's  tool. 

The  voice  is  hushed, 
But  in  the  look  pollution  lies ; 
'Gainst  virtue  every  feature  cries, 

And  it  is  crushed! 

A  blur,  a  stain 

On  mother,  daughter,  wife  and  sister  ; 
May  all  in  Hades  scorch  and  blister      ^ 

Who  give  such  pain. 


140  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


VALEDICTORY. 

How  many  thoughts  are  dotted  here, 

Engraven  on  the  silent  page, 
Catching  each  wayward  hope  and  fear 

Which  mark  the  path  from  Youth  to  Age  ? 

E  soon  to  earth  must  say  farewell!— 
Perhaps  in  distant,  future  days, 
When  the  dull  ear  is  deaf  to  praise, 

The  scribblings  of  my  youth  forgot, 
Thou  able  art  at  least  to  tell 
How  long  ago  a  heart  did  dwell 
Which  found  in  thee  a  heart  to  speak ; 
The  aims  it  missed,  so  sad  and  bleak, 

For  lingering  years,  its  joyless  lot. 

What  feelings  cheer  the  gloomy  way, 
And  'rouse  our  better  thoughts  to  start, 

And  cause  our  ennuied  minds  to  stray, 

But  the  Faith  that  strengthens  every  heart? 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  141 


NOTE. 

Dates  are  appended  to  many  of  the  verses  for 
obvious  reasons,  that  those  prompted  by  the  gush 
and  fervor  of  youth  might  be  contrasted  with  the 
productions  of  maturer  years.  These  selections 
were  difficult  to  make  in  an  accumulation  of  rub 
bish.  Those  made  may  not  be  the  best,  and  after 
all,  should  perhaps  have  been  consigned  to  the 
flames,  as  well  as  so  many  others,  despite  the  ver 
dict  of  partial  critics  whose  judgment  could  hardly 
be  deemed  unbiased. 

The  earliest  poem  is  "Twas  on  a  Starry  Night," 
the  latest  is  "Thirty  Years  Ago." 


ADDENDA. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  145 


THE  BOARD   BILL. 

(Bv  JUDGE  GEORGE  B.  GARDNER,  AN  IMPROMPTU  AT 

COURT    HOUSE    TABLE.) 

THE  plaintiff  must  sue, 

Her  money  was  due ; 
By  coaxing  she  got  not  a  dollar. 

Defendant  did  taunt 

His  old  maiden  aunt 
Until  she  got  "hot  in  the  collar." 

Defendant  will  claim, 

Very  much  to  his  shame, 
That  aunty  must  pay  for  her  "ration" 

Although  it  is  shown 

By  every  one  known, 
She  came  by  his  own  invitation. 

She  worked  every  day, 

"All  work  and  no  play," 
In  sewing,  in  mending  and  sweeping. 

Her  money  he  got, 

And  always  forgot 
To  pay,  in  spite  of  her  weeping. 


NOTE— The  "old  gal  "  got  a  verdict.    On  a  second  trial  she  got  an 
other  verdict,  and  defendant  "  whacked  up.  " 


146  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


One  stalwart  Bushcreeker, 

Quite  fond  of  his  liquor, 
Used  to  get  his  old  aunty  to  hide  it; 

When  she  told  it  in  court, 

The  lad's  feelings  were  hurt, 
And  the  rascal  came  in  and  denied  it. 

And  Tom,  a  great  strapper, 

Would  take  aunty's  napper, 
If  the  law  would  but  give  him  permission; 

But  at  least  her  old  back 

He  would  like  for  to  rack 
O'er  the  wash  tub,  without  intermission. 

And  aye,  the  lad's  father 

Would  very  much  rather 
Make  aunty  an  ancient  street  sweep, 

Than  let  her  raise  honey, 

And  live  on  her  money, 
Which  aunty  so  much  wished  to  keep. 

He  forgot  all  the  favors 

And  many  endeavors 
Of  aunty  to  make  them  all  happy, 

And  joined  in  a  rout 

To  beat  the  "gal"  out 
Of  the  means  she  got  from  her  "pappy." 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  147 

So  aunty,  they  said, 

Was  a  pesky  old  maid, 

With  her  "moughts"  and  her  "moughtents" 
outrageous ; 

And  must  pay  for  her  board, 

While  they  kept  her  hoard, 
But  nary  a  cent  for  her  wages. 


148  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


TONY    REPLIES. 

Now  you  who  saw  that  "  board  bill "  rhyme, 

Come,  hear  the  other  side; 
And  when  you've  taken  time  enough, 

Perhaps  you  may  decide. 

In  Summer  and'in  Winter, 

In  Autumn  and  in  Spring, 
For  ten  good  years  old  aunty  lived, 

And  paid  in  promising. 

A  horse  to  ride  and  food  to  eat, 

A  room  kept  nice  and  clean ; 
A  doctor  when  she  was  not  well, — 

In  nothing  treated  mean. 

She  did  no  work  and  lived  at  ease, 
And  claimed  she  paid  her  way ; 

But  when  she  left  she  sued  her  host, 
Forgot  her  board  to  pay. 

Ingratitude,  those  traitor  arms, 

O'erthrew  her  kindest  friend, 
And  aunty  was  bereft  of  charms 

When  Court  she  did  attend. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  149 

Her  ten  years'  board  she  got  for  nought, 

'Twas  that  much  saved  by  law ; 
But  this  sad  lesson  all  may  learn,— 

Don't  trust  an  "old  maid's"  jaw. 

They'll  beat  you,  certain,  "hit  or  miss," 
No  "odds"  how  sure  your  case  may  be; 

If  on  this  point  you  have  a  doubt, 
Board  one  ten  years,  and  then  you'll  see. 


150  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


WHAT  "TOM"   SAYS. 

THERE  was  an  "old  maid,  " 

She  threw  in  the  shade 
All  chances  our  bill  "for"  to  get  ; 

No  board  was  e'er  paid 

By  "aunty,"  so  staid,_ 
The  total  sum  due  us,  as  yet. 

Nobody  would  keep  her, 

This  consummate  weeper, 
She  wandered  from  "pillar  to  post;" 

Not  even  a  sweeper, 

A  cook  or  a  reaper; 
For  nothing  she  lived  on  her  host. 

With  plenty  of  money, 

And  two  stands  of  honey, 
She  came  with  her  "daddy,"  one  day, 

On  a  little  black  pony, 

To  see  her  friend  Tony, 
And  bargain  the  price  of  her  stay. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS. 

For  seven  long  years, 

'Mid  sickness  and  tears, 
She  lived  on  the  fat  of  the  land, 

Without  any  fears, 

Regardless  of  jeers— 
To  work  she  ne'er  raised  a  hand. 

She  would  never  pay  board 

While  her  cash  she  could  hoard, 
Or  loan  at  high  interest  nappy, 

Though  given  her  word 

It  would  all  go  toward 
The  payments  of  keeping  her  happy. 

Take  warning,  my  friend, 

And  don't  horses  lend, 
Or  keep  open  house  for  "old  maids,  " 

Whose  backs  will  not  bend, 

Who  clothes  will  not  mend, 
And  whose  Board  will  never  be  paid. 


151 


152  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


NoTE-Upon  reading  the  three  foregoing  squibs,  my  friend,  Col.  T.  A. 
Walker,  of  Hillsboro,  O.,  handed  me  the  following  Impromptu 
as  an  addenda: 


BLOOD  UPON  THE  MOON. 

(BY  T.  A.   WALKER.) 

WHEN  old  Winter's  blasts  are  over, 

And  the  Spring  is  drawing  nigh, 
We  are  pleased,  in  fact,  "in  clover," 

'Neath  the  blue  and  softening  sky. 
While  we  discern  from  where  we're  hin'gin, 

In  the  morn,  at  night  and  noon, 
That  there's  paint  upon  the  Indian, 

And  there's  blood  upon  the  moon. 

We  like  conflict,  or  not  danger, 

"In  the  bivouac  of  life;" 
Like  the  warrior  or  the  granger. 

Can  conform  to  peace  or  strife. 
So,  farewell,  home,  our  lovely  Bingen ; 

To  thee  return  we  may  not  soon, 
For  there's  paint  upon  the  Indian, 

And  there's  blood  upon  the  moon. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  153 

In  this  conflict,  as  it  fought  is, 

Surely  'tween  the  right  and  wrong, 
Help !  O  powers  of  light  and  darkness, 

Help,  0  !  help  the  right  along. 
May  not  the  strong  on  weak  infringing 

Mar  the  right  or  spoil  the  tune, 
While  there's  paint  upon  the  Indian, 

And  there's  blood  upon  the  moon. 

And  whene'er  the  conflict's  ended, 

And  the  flag  of  truce  unfurled, 
May  a  shout  of  triumph,  blended 

With  the  winds,  surround  the  world, 
While  we  put  their  narrow  beds  in 

All  who  dared  the  right  to  prune ; 
With  no  scalp  upon  the  red-skin, 

And  serene  and  calm  the  moon. 


154  ECHOES  FROM  THE 


THE  BUFORD  PIG. 


COME  listen,  jolly  suitors, 

A  story  I'll  relate, 
About  a  little  Buford  Pig 

And  his  untimely  fate. 
He'll  never  curl  his  tail  again 

Across  his  bristly  back, 
Since  overweight  broke  off  the  trade 

Between  sweet  Bill  and  Jack. 


II 


"One  twenty-five,"  his  master  said, 

Was  all  this  pig  should  weigh ; 
The  glutton  filled  his  stomach  full 

Of  slop,  and  corn  and  hay, 
Until,  alas!  when  at  the  scales, 

This  little  pig  alive 
Brought  down  the  beam  quite  easily 

At  one  and  forty-five. 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  155 


III 

Indignant  Bill  refused  to  take 

This  overgrown  young  pig ; 
One  twenty-five  the  bargain  was ; 

'Tis  twenty  pounds  too  big. 
The  pig  got  mad  and  sued  in  court 

His  wounded  rights  to  claim; 
He  broke  up  Jack,  he  broke  up  Bill, 

And  died  a  death  of  shame. 


IV 


His  bristles  made  a  dusting-brush, 

To  clean  Jack's  pockets  out ; 
His  toe  nails,  sharpened  to  the  quick, 

Tore  William's  bowels  out; 
And  now  his  skin  at  Eckley's  hangs, 

And  it  would  make  you  laugh, 
To  see  close  by  another  skin, 

From  Harvey's  runty  calf. 


156 


ECHOES  FROM  THE 


ALL  ABOUT  A  PENNY. 


Two  neighbors  had  a  lawsuit, 

And  thus  it  came  about : 
Which  note  to  place  a  credit  on, 

That  neither  could  find  out. 
Before  a  Justice  both  appeared, 

And  had  a  trial  fair ; 
The  Justice  found  where  it  was  due, 

And  placed  the  credit  there. 

II 

The  man  who  gained  the  judgment 

With  this  was  not  content, 
And  said  the  Justice  figured  wrong, 

And  lost  to  him  a  cent. 
Straightway  to  court  he  did  appeal, 

His  missing  cent  to  find, 
And  found  he  had  the  costs  to  pay — 

That  he  had  "gone  it  blind." 


HIGHLAND  HILLS.  157 

III 

Take  warning  now  ;  keep  out  of  court, 

"  Let  well  enough  alone ;  " 
Don't  lose  the  substance  out  of  spite, 

"  To  wrangle  o'er  a  bone." 
To  save  a  cent  and  pay  the  costs 

Comes  hardly  with  good  grace ; 
'"Tis  like  the  man  who  bit  his  nose 

From  spite  unto  his  face." 


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